


Celestial Objects

by tincanspaceship



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Babyfic, F/F, First Kiss, Fist Fights, Galas, Hurt/Comfort, Karaoke, Minor Character Death, NaNoWriMo, Philippa in a suit, Scars, Science Experiments, Self-Harm, Sickfic, Torture, Weddings, Young Michael, academy Philippa, both noted in the chapter in which they occur and the chapter where they are mentioned, everyone is gay and i mean it, michael does janelle monae karaoke because who's gonna stop me?? no one., ohoh yes they get married y'all cannot stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-09-12 14:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 47,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincanspaceship/pseuds/tincanspaceship
Summary: A (somewhat) long collection of connected stories, focused on Michael Burnham and Philippa Georgiou's relationship.





	1. Chapter One, in which Michael Burnham makes a mistake.

Michael pulls out her lunch tray from under her robes, clenching her fingers around the rim. She skulks under a shrub, waiting for a sign. It takes eons. They stretch and pull and tug her mind into a jumble, which she untangles through a quick litany.

 

_ This will not do. _

 

_ No doubt, no fear. _

 

_ They deserve it. _

 

_ And this will end.      _

 

Spock's boots pass through her limited vision, her grip tightens around the aluminum. She can hear the voices.

 

_ They are devils.  _

 

Their tone is mocking, and Michael can't hear what's being said over the persistent thump in her ears, but she can hear enough, enough to bide her time until physical contact. She waits. Spock is carefully wording his answers to their questions, but that will not last long, no, not long. He is too small to defend himself.

 

_ And you are _ five _ times weaker than them. _

 

Michael has heard the doubt too many times now. It carries no weight. 

 

_ I am smarter.  _

 

The punch hits. Fingers contact Spock's ribs. The sound is sickening, and clogs Michael's ears with its whisper.

 

_ NOW _ !

 

Michael jumps out of the bushes, quiet, and smashes the tray against the side of the Vulcan closer to her. Metal contacts fabric, and a little farther in, skin. Spock gapes. They turn. Michael feels eyes stare straight into her fears.

 

_ Mistake. Should have hit him in the head. _

 

"Spock, go!" Michael commands, and the fury in her voice is enough to send him darting away, home. Michael grips the tray harder.

"Huh. A human, a half-human. Cowardice flows in your blood." Michael has heard this, hundreds, thousands of times. It holds no power over her. She leans close into the Vulcan's leering face, the elaborate braid behind their head still in place. "How...illogical."

Michael rears back and headbutts her, hard enough Michael's teeth crack against each other. The girl stumbles, and holds her hand to her nose. Michael rips her leg out from under her with the hook of her foot. She trips.

"Who  _ are _ you to tell me who I am!" Michael shrieks. A fist catches her in the solar plexus, and Michael coughs, her vision blurring for a moment. Pain fills her thigh, a boot having slammed into it. 

 

_ Mistake. Don't get distracted. _

 

Michael whips around. Her tray collides with the cheek of a slightly older Vulcan, cracking his head. She lifts her knee and forces it up into his stomach. He falls, and she smacks his side with the tray again for good measure. The girl stumbles back to her feet. The other standing Vulcan runs at Michael, who sidesteps and holds the tray out parallel to the ground. He slams into it. She brings her elbow down to the back of his neck, forcing an awful noise out of his mouth. 

"You can't fight us!" the boy protests, trying to recover to his feet. Michael elbows him in the jaw.

"I can, and I will!" she yells, kicking the base of his spine and making him tumble. A force slams against her, shoving her to the ground with a scream. Textured rock digs into her palms.

 

_ Mistake. There are a lot of them, and one of me. _

 

Burning spreads up her forearms. She feels a tug at her arms, pulling her up, a limp, unmoving, mound of human. A hand settles gently at the base of her neck.

"Say something, I fucking dare you!” the girl shouts. Michael grits her teeth to stop from chuckling. 

“Something.” Michael grins over her shoulder. The girl's face contorts, and she pushes at her spine. 

 

_ Mistake. Poked the bear.  _

 

The hands supporting Michael release, and her head smacks the concrete. Her mind blanks for a second. Sparklers cover her vision, and she feels as if her head will crack open. A boot makes contact with her ribs. A hollow, gasping pain comes immediately. Michael can't help a slight groan. 

“Humans shouldn't be allowed here.” The voice is barely loud enough for her to hear over their ringing in her ears. Michael shoves herself up, up, up, the aching throughout her entire body gnawing away. She clenches her fists, watches the girl’s eyes drift there, waits, just a moment, and kicks her in the ribs. The girl recoils.

“Maybe they should.” Michael adjusts her stance to a fighting one, despite the pounding in her head. “Let's see.” Michael's vision blinks out for a second, which she dimly registers as a bad thing, but it is enough time for her opponent to grab the solid metal water bottle from her bag. 

 

_ Mistake. Concussion.  _

 

Michael can feel her the Vulcan running at her. All she does is hold her hand out, palm flat, hoping for a miracle. 

The collision is quick, but the Vulcan falls with a heave. The right side of Michael's face is burning. It takes a moment for her exhausted mind to catch up to why, and when she sees the dented waterbotle on the ground, her pain multiplies. She gasps, shredding hurt slamming into her.

“Hah...I--I beat you…” she manages, directed towards the only remaining Vulcan. The others have disappeared. Michael turns, and leaves. 

The walk home was already a long one, but today, it stretches for eternity, pain shooting through her nervous system every second she stands. It feels as though she were stuck back in her biology class, the teacher’s recording was playing at half-speed, and she had nothing to toy with as she sat. She is glad, she admits, that it is darkish early. Dark hides wounds.

It takes so infinitely long, but her house comes into view. Michael feels as though she could cry. The last squares of sidewalk take the longest, time sludge, but eventually her hand finds the doorknob and turns. The lights are partially on but there is no movement, except for I-Chaya, coming to investigate. He brushes up against her side. 

“Hey, bud. Get the medkit, can you?” She gestures at it, and he goes to grab the box. Michael slides against the wall to the floor. Her eyes almost shut. She forces them open. I-Chaya returns with the kit, snuggling into her side with a quiet whimper. 

“Thank you, Chaya,” she murmurs, grabbing the box and releasing the clasp. I-Chaya licks the undamaged side of her face. Michael rests her head on his soft stomach, fishing around for the scanner. She emerges with it clasped in her stiff fingers. 

“Sister, it would be easier if I did that for you.” Spock wanders into the room. Michael exhales.

“Please.” He takes the scanner from her hand and runs it up and down. The high-pitched beeping pinches at Michael's ears. 

“What did you  _ do,  _ Michael?” He reaches for the regenerator, running it over her scraped palms. She mumbles something incoherent and buries herself in I-Chaya’s fur. Spock sighs. “Open your eyes,” he orders. Michael obliges, and is met with a brilliant light in both eyes. She winces. 

“Some warning next time, brother!”

“Sorry. One more time.” Michael sighs and opens her eyes again, staring into the light as the regenerator hums around her head. Spock  _ hm _ s. Michael glares at the light for another moment.

"We really need to get Mother."

Michael sighs and curls up. "Put the kit away. I don't want you to get in trouble." 

"Sister-" Michael cuts him off.

"Just do it, all right? Trust me." Spock sighs and gathers his materials. "Leave. I'll open the door again and yell for her, that'll wake her up." 

"This course of action seems illogical."

"I just beat up four people, I'm tired, I broke a rib, and I think I'm concussed. Leave me alone," Michael grumbles. 

"Goodnight, sister." Spock tiptoes out of the room.  

"'Night, Spock. " Michael leans against the wall, her vision blurring. She stands, shaky, and opens the door and slams it shut again. Air fills her lungs. She calls for her mother, over and over again, until Amanda walks into the room, rubbing her eyes.

"Michael? Oh, my Gods, Michael, what happened?!" Amanda runs for her, scooping her up in her arms.

"Ouch, mother, I--I'm sorry," Michael whispers. 

"Oh, darling!" Michael's legs weaken, and she stumbles. Amanda helps her into a chair. "Your  _ face _ , oh, Michael, what happened, sweetie?" Michael can feel herself shutting down, so tired.

"It's-can we talk later? I'm just exhausted," Michael mumbles, her eyes slipping closed.

"Of course, my darling...your cheek, my Gods." Amanda is murmuring to herself, something completely incomprehensible to Michael, who is only a sliver away from sleep. "Michael?" The words are too far away for Michael to hear. 

 

She sleeps.

 

When she wakes up, the bed is new, the sheets stiff, and her brothers look over her in both fascination and respect. She blinks, clearing sleep from her eyes. The room is clinical, pale blue, a single window. Unused medical tools lie in the corner

"Michael! Impressive. Next time,  _ you _ teach  _ me _ ." She sighs.

"How mad is Sarek?' Michael asks, ignoring the previous statement.

"He is--" Spock stops. "--I would say he would have fought those pupils if you had not taken care of them already, sister."

"He's more pissed at the Learning Center for turning a blind eye, but you'll probably get chewed out anyway," Sybok supplies.

"Great." Michael groans. "Will he buy it if I pretend I'm asleep?"

"No," Spock responds. "You were asleep for sixteen hours." The door creaks open. Michael jumps a little. Sarek steps into the room, instantly silencing her brothers.

"Good morning, Michael. Children, may we have a moment?" Spock and Sybok walk, silent, out of the room. Sybok shoots a concerned gaze over his shoulder as he closes the door. Michael takes a deep breath.

"Where's Amanda?" Michael asks, trying to seem bewildered. 

"Your mother went to get you--what did she call it?-- _ brunch _ ." Michael stifles a snort. "I came to speak to you."

"Okay, Sarek." Michael starts counting to drown him out. His voice is definitely disapproving, though she is too enveloped in counting the spokes of colour in his iris to hear the words. She moves on to counting the bricks on the back wall, though she instantly calculates the number. Her mind bounces between the objects in the room, thirty-two buttons on the panel behind her, sixteen visible grey hairs in her father’s eyebrows, one hundred and nineteen papers piled on her side table. Her father’s voice fades out.

“You understand that this will never happen again, Michael?” Sarek’s tone is grave. Michael fights her smile down.

“Of course, Sarek. I promise.” Michael nods. 

“Good. You will be back in school tomorrow.”

“Reasonable.” Michael does her best to imitate his monotone voice. He leaves, dropping Michael’s school tablet on her bed on his way out.

Michael sighs, picks it up, and starts on her chemistry bookwork. 

  
  



	2. Chapter Two, in which Philippa Georgiou defies expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge wonderful thanks to @georgiov and @onaperduamedee (radiolaires) on Tumblr for helping me out with some non-english terms of affection, they're both fantastic!

 

"Hey, Pippa!" Angela's voice comes through the door. "I left my sweater on your chair." Philippa bounds to the door and smashes the 'open' button.

  
"Hey, Angela. Will you marry me?"  


"Only if you've got a bagel. Morning, dork." Angela leans in for a kiss. Philippa obliges. "Mm. Sorry to bug you, just left some stuff here."   


"Your slob behaviour is rubbing off on my room, you disaster. Get your stuff." Angela salutes.    


"Sorry. Are you busy tonight? Thought we might have dinner before I leave." Angela picks her textbooks out of the mess.    


"Sounds lovely. Are we talking ' _ leave the grounds and go eat something fancy _ ' or ' _ lie in bed, watch a movie in pyjamas, fall asleep and miss our first class _ ’? Because I like both." Philippa leans against the doorway.   


"I–" Angela shrugs. "–eh. Feeling kinda lazy."   


"I hear that, Ang. Are you feeling more 'action movie' or 'gay romance'?"   


"You know what I'm gonna say to that? Both. Let's find a dramatic gay action movie with a buff lady." Angela grins, fishing a sock out from under the couch.    


"You've got a buff lady  _ right here _ ," Philippa protests.    


"I know, and your abs are the sweetest goddamn thing in the universe."   


" And you've got a very nice comfortable stomach, Ang," Philippa says, trying to hide her blush.    


"I can't throw people across rooms, though."   


"Angela, you speak fifteen languages. That's twelve more than I can!" Philippa huffs. Ang leans down to kiss Philippa's forehead.     


"You're so cute,  _ poussin _ ."   


"Mph. Not fair, Angela!"   


Ang ruffles her hair and plops down on her couch, pulling a pencil out of her hair. She snatches a shiny book off the table. Philippa glares at her.    


"Ang, no! I need that for class," Philippa protests.    


"Sucks to be you!" Angela starts furiously sketching. Philippa sighs.    


"Ang! Wait, is that me?" Ang smirks.    


"Maybe. But-with a badass haircut.” 

“Hey! My hair is nice enough!" Philippa argues. Angela sticks her tongue out, drawing the line of the eye.    


"I just meant a  _ more _ badass haircut, Phil."   


"Hmph." Philippa peers surreptitiously over Angela's shoulder. "That nose is a little off."   


"You can't see your own nose at this angle, Philippa. Stay still--" Angela lifts her fingers to Philippa's jaw and turns her head a little. "There we go, *affection*."    


"Come  _ on _ , Ang. Cheating again!" Philippa grumbles.    


"You're so adorable,” Angela coos, squeezing Philippa’s cheeks.

"Shut up!" Philippa groans. She gently pokes Angela's bicep.    


"Come on,  _ liebling _ , don't be rude!" Angela sticks out her bottom lip, pouting. Philippa sighs and sits next to Angela. She puts her head on her shoulder, pushing at the twists of hair.    


"I'm gonna miss you, Ang." Philippa wraps her arms around Angela's midsection.    


"I know. I'll call you every day. Promise?" Angela drops the book for a moment, ruffling Philippa's hair.    


"I'll still miss you."   


They sit in silence for a few moments, the sound of Angela's pencil scritching at the paper the only noise, until Angela drops the pencil and announces "Done!".   


"Let me see, Ang!" Philippa can feel excitement in her core, bubbling. Angela tips the sketch in her direction. Philippa traces her fingers over the embedded marks, the scratches for shaved hair, the elegant twists and piles of hair on the top  of her head, the solid line of her lips. The drawing is captivating.    


"Like it?" Angela teases. Philippa squeezes her tight.    


"I love it! I'll---" She stops for a moment to think. "---I'll get that haircut. And it'll remind me of you!"   


"Really?" Angela looks at her in disbelief.    


"Yeah! It'll be awesome. And I kinda wanted to change my hair anyway." Philippa pulls her fingers through her hair. Angela kisses her forehead.    


"You’ll look amazing,  _ ashayam _ ." Angela smirks. Philippa pouts.    


"Cheating!"

  
  


Philippa's PADD dings. She scrabbles for it, knocking over her textbook and nearly spilling water over her quantum mechanics project. Her fingers grab the smooth surface on the third try. She activates the link.

"Hey, Angela!" 

"Well, hey,  _ par'Machkai _ ," Angela returns. Philippa sticks her tongue out.

"Shut up."

"Will you marry me?"

"Only if you've got a bagel." The words tick off Philippa's tongue. Angela snorts and drops her head to the controls. Philippa grins. A hand rises to the camera, holding a toasted pale bagel.  "Wait---you actually?" Philippa coughs. "You actually brought that?" Angela's head lifts slightly off the panel.

"Yeah-also, don't take this as a joke. I am  _ genuinely _ proposing to you.  _ With a goddamn bagel! _ " Angela laughs, though it seems more of a defence mechanism. 

"Oh--oh, okay? I--I, huh. Ang. I--sure." Philippa stammers. "I-uh, I accept?" Angela beams. She hops back into a sitting position.

"Thank you, Pip.  _ lhhei _ ."

"Oh, give it up! Also, now I'm hungry." Philippa glares at the bagel in Angela's hand. "I love you, though. When do I get to see you?" Philippa bounces in her chair.

"If you can get a couple days off, I can see you in two weeks. If I'm lucky. I feel like I should have done this before I left," Angela muses. 

"Yeah, maybe. Bit silly of you."

"It's okay. Because I love you, and I'll send my sister down with a physical ring for you. Also a bagel, just for posterity."

"Aww. Ang, so sweet!" Philippa is trembling just a little, excitement filling her cells. "My  _ baobei _ ."

"Now you're the one cheating." Angela smiles.

"It's just...payback." Philippa smirks.

"Aw." Angela takes a large bite out of the bagel while typing on one of the panels. "I just messaged the sister, she'll find it when her next class is done. You can wait that long, right?" she teases. 

"No. But I'll manage."

"I gotta go. See you soon?" Angela takes another bite of bagel before swivelling her chair to face a side panel. "Love you!"

"Love you, too! Don't forget to send that bagel!" Angela salutes.

"Yes, sir!" 

The transmission winks out, and Philippa collapses to the couch, giggling.

  
  


Philippa runs a hand through her hair. Kat drags her fingers through it too, playing with the coiled ends. 

“It's not like it'll be gone forever, Kat. You don't have to say goodbye.”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “It'll be gone for a while.” Kat starts parting Philippa's hair with a comb, three segments emerging. The middle section is pulled up into a bun. 

“Yeah. Thanks for the help, Kat.” Katrina nods, sticking out her tongue as she tidies Philippa's hair. 

“You owe me,” Kat returns. She shakes her hand through Philippa's curls. “You're gonna look  _ so _ badass.” She grins in sync with Philippa, who leans her head back far enough in her chair to lightly bump her forehead against Katrina's chin. Kat sighs and picks up her scissors. Philippa can feel a tiny weight being lifted off her scalp with each cut, something that she has to consider deeply satisfying. She brushes her fingers over the unpolished bristles. They give a little to her fingertips, and it feels alien to not have more hair to stroke. 

“This is so... _ weird _ !” she exclaims, turning her head to the mirror, prompting a scolding noise to emerge from Kat. 

“Stop moving, Phil.” Philippa sticks out her tongue but stops anyway. 

"For someone who's career path is feelings in space, you're rather good at this hair-cutting business," Philippa mumbles. 

"I watched a thirty-minute tutorial. In  _ French _ . You owe me, Phil."

"Isn't causing havoc among the admiralty payment enough?" Kat sighs and rolls her eyes.

"I get you're hellbent on total revenge, but I feel like there's a  _ better _ way to do this? That doesn't require, I don't know,  _ beating the Kobayashi Maru? _ "

"Technically, I'm not winning, since my ship gets mildly singed," Philippa protests. "And it wasn't that hard. I just thought 'what's so thoroughly, utterly stupid that no one in their right mind would ever do?' And I wrote them all down, stole the simulation, and ran them at three a.m," she explains, buzzers whirring in her ear.

"Jesus. You know it was just a malfunction, right? It happens." Philippa groans.

"It wouldn't have happened at  _ all  _ if the inspector had done their job, Kat! If the Fleet heads weren't trashbags and just --" Philippa exhales heavily. "--if they had just  _ done their fucking jobs _ , we'd have Angela back. It's not that hard!" Philippa's screaming phase had worn out to a subzero hatred, pure rage filling her every cell with some awful combination of ungodly determination and intense adrenaline.

"Have you slept in the past week, Philippa?"

"I passed out for the entirety of my command-med class, if that's what you mean." Kat looks at her in horror. 

"Sleep. Eat some food. Drink something that isn't coffee or bleach."

"I had a salad last night!" Philippa argues.

"That was three nights ago, I was there, and you ate  _ three bites _ before trying to break into the inspector's records. Again." Philippa says nothing. She  _ hmph _ s. "Come on, Phil. How are you gonna beat up holographic aliens if you haven't had any protein in a week?"

"Through rage, Kat. I need no food."

"Rage is not  _ food _ . Not even close. Come  _ on _ , Phil, what would Angela tell you to do?" Kat returns, slicing at the base of her hair.

"She'd--she'd...." Philippa's throat squirms into a knot. "I---fuck, Kat, why'd you bring that up?" Her voice cracks.

"Oh, Pip...shit, I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

"No! I---I-She drew me with this haircut, and I said I'd do it, and now she's fucking dead!" Philippa near-screams, her face twisted. "And---oh, Kat, you should have seen her face. Her  _ face _ ! She was going to die, and she let me think she was going to come home, come back! And---and---and" Philippa breaks, she crumbles, again and again, shaking, her fingernails digging into her thighs. Kat drops her tools, wraps her arms around Philippa.

"Philippa, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry. You need to eat."

"Fuck you, Kat!" Philippa shrugs Katrina's arms away. She pounds to her feet and her fury depletes; her arms drop and she falls, unprotesting, back to the chair. "Kat, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh, Kat, I want her back, so bad, so bad," she sobs. Kat presses her hand against Philippa's cheek.

"It's okay. Just sleep, and I'll get you something in the morning, all right? Come on." Kat pushes the rolling chair out of the bathroom with a little effort, dragging Philippa with her. She pulls the chair right up to her bed. "Out you get, Pip," she chides. Philippa crawls into the nest of blankets, wiping her eyes on a corner of a sheet.

"She--" Philippa starts. Kat sits on the edge of the bed, pulling up the covers around her.

"What happened, Phil?" Katrina prods, her psychology lessons pulling up in her mind.

"She, oh, Gods, she proposed to me, before---before she-she..my Angela...." Philippa trails. Katrina strokes her back through sobs.

"I'm so sorry, Philippa," Kat whispers. A breathy " _ oh _ " emerges from Philippa. “I’m sorry. They  _ will  _ listen. I will help you.”

“She--when I said, said ‘only if you have a bagel’, she, she  _ had one.  _ I--she–she, my love, Gods, I agreed...and she  _ died  _ seventeen seconds after I hung up. My--my Angela, she can't be…fuck!” Philippa screeches. Kat lets Philippa squeeze her hand so tightly. 

“I know, Philippa, it hurts. You just need to put yourself through the motions of normal life until you can function.” Katrina brushes her fingers against the shaved sides of Philippa's head. “And you look lovely,” she adds. 

“No, no...my Angela–my best...oh, my  _ fiancée _ \--she went and fucking died because of something so easily found-why? Fuck, why her?” Philippa chokes. 

“I'm sorry, Philippa. Please, sleep, just--for a little. You  _ need _ to.” Philippa curls up, her eyes settle closed, and she freezes, hoping for a moment where she forgets the ache in her body, in her mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i regret everything and i'm sorry


	3. Chapter Three, in which Michael Burnham finds a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, I am vehemently anti-Sarek, and it shows.

Michael takes in the transporter room with a sweeping glance. Her robes are too warm for the human-adjusted ship, and she fidgets with the back of her cloak. The captain stands before her. Michael remembers her facial features from the file, yet now that photo doesn't do justice to her appearance, the loose curls, her eyes mirroring her brilliant smile, the curves of her cheekbones, the way the uniform clings to the pronounced muscles in her shoulders. Michael wishes she could smile back with her whole soul.

_Not while he's here._

She pinches the meat at the base of her thumb to keep her face neutral. Philippa's hand is held out to her, and Michael's mind comes to a clog. She spits out something to appease Sarek.   
“Respect is earned. As is friendliness.” Her eyebrow raise, the tone of her sentence, her choice of word all formatted for Sarek’s approval. Despite that, this time she plays her cards incorrectly. He scolds her. It seems normal to this Captain, nothing more than just a gentle reminder, yet Michael can feel the words crawl into her heart. They bite and pinch. The rest of the conversation passes over her, as her self is shrinking and contorting in pain in her center, her mind in a familiar disconnect. Words blur.   
Time speeds and runs and goes on without her.   
“Michael?” Philippa's voice hits her with a wake-up shock, and she blinks. “Are you all right?”   
“What?” Philippa reaches out to pat her shoulder instinctively but freezes her hand a few centimetres away.   
“Can I be tactile with you, Michael?” Philippa asks, her arm still extended. Michael blinks again.   
“W-uh..yes?” Michael mumbles.   
“You're okay with that?” Philippa's voice is soft and somehow provides more comfort than Michael has felt in years.   
“Yes,” Michael states, adjusting her stance to look around at the corridor. Philippa rubs her bicep with a firm but carefully gentle grip.   
“Your quarters are down this way, Michael,” Philippa says, shifting her hand to a resting position on Michael's back, just between her shoulders. She guides her down the hall. Michael notes how perfectly placed Philippa's hand is, just barely a guide but also a comfort, on the vertebrae a parent would have reached if they leant down to help a smaller child. Michael smiles.   
“Oh, there's a smile, Burnham! Thought I'd never see it. Here we are, deck seven, room two-zero-seven-b. Hold your hand to the reader,” Philippa helps, pointing at the blue screen. Michael does so. “If it doesn't work, the default passcode is each number squared then the deck number. Yours would be--”  
“Four-zero-four-nine-seven,” Michael finishes, watching the doors slide open. Philippa grins.   
“You're a good egg. I see we've gotten your stuff already.” Philippa eyes the room. “The Shenzhou was poorly designed with nearly a hundred more quarters than it needs. You get your own room.” Michael sits on the bed.   
“Thank you, Captain.” Michael shifts, feeling a sour pinch at the back of her eyes and throat. Philippa's face clouds with worry. She plops herself down next to Michael, placing her hand on her back again.   
“Talk to me, Michael,” Philippa murmurs. “You can tell me.” Michael feels the artificial blocks she'd put against her emotions loosen, and she lets them, for the first time since she built them up. Tears spill out her eyes. Philippa draws in circles on Michael's back, a soothing ‘shh-shh’ coming from her. Michael sobs. “Oh, Michael, what's going on?”   
“I--I don't know...I–it feels good…” Michael stutters through her tears. Philippa wraps her arms around Michael's shaking frame and pulls her into her lap, watching her curl up like a kitten. Philippa whispers soothing tones to her, with a soft pet down her arms each time.   
“You can cry here, Michael. It's okay for you to do that,” Philippa assures. Michael smiles just a little bit.   
“Okay. Can--I can smile? Do...do I–I have to be--be Vulcan?” Philippa feels the way that Michael hasn't been allowed to be who she is, and she knows how it bites at the soul.  
“No, no, Michael. Just be you.” Philippa holds her hand. Michael stiffens, her tears halting as she turns over to look at Philippa, accidentally shoving her elbow against Philippa's knee. Her face is blank and her lips part.   
“I don't know who I am.”  
Michael feels it kick her in the chest. She can't breathe. The only thing holding her to the world is Philippa's hand in hers. She gasps. Philippa's fingers spread across her forehead.   
“Oh, sweetie, that's okay. I--I can't say I know who I am,” Philippa admits.   
“Really?” Michael seems to have settled herself on Philippa's lap now, waiting for her words.   
“Michael, the world is a messy place in more ways than one. I can be Philippa Georgiou without knowing what that means. It just means I don't give myself space to find out.” She pauses. “I think I'm afraid to see what would happen. But, Michael, I will give you space and time and affection to keep exploring, because it hurts to be as old as me and not know.”  
Michael nods at her advice. “Okay. I--I want to see who I am when I don't have to be anything but a Michael Burnham.”  
“That's the spirit. Is there anything I can do for you?” Philippa murmurs.   
“Will you think it's silly?” Michael asks, her head still on Philippa's lap.   
“No. Probably not.”  
“There's a book there-in the top box-could you read it for me? I…” Michael watches Philippa lean over to grab the lid off the box and grab her copy of Alice in Wonderland.   
“Good choice, Michael.” Philippa flips through to the first page. She starts reading, a soothing wave of paragraphs Michael knows so well, but they feel so much better coming out of Philippa's mouth, so much, and it makes her feel the same way she feels when she sees a celestial event, when she looks out at a beautiful nebula. Michael thinks she cries a little.   
“Michael, all right?”   
“Yeah. It's perfect.”


	4. Chapter Four, in which Michael Burnham admires the stars and Philippa Georgiou

  
Philippa hmphs at the display, examining the inner seam of the suit jacket. The door dings.   
“Come on in!” she yells. Michael enters and freezes immediately.   
“Captain, am I intruding?”  
“No, no, ignore me, Ensign. What do you need?” Philippa drops her tablet and the coat falls into the crumpled heap of the rest of the suit.   
“I came to check on you. Can I help?” Michael crouches next to Philippa. “What are you doing?”   
“It's the suit--I can't figure out a way to get it comfortable.” Philippa jabs her finger at the coat. “This is my tenth attempt.”  
“What worked?” Michael drops all the way to a seat, pawing through the material pile.   
“Lined the shirt piece. The pants are nearly fine. Everything else, well, no luck.” Philippa sighs. “The only good suit I had got ripped and I lost the pattern.”  
“Oh. Is is--why do you need the extra comfort? If I can ask?”  
“Sensory issues. Can't wear most clothes with seams or rough fabric.” Philippa pokes the suit jacket. “The coat doesn't look good over the shirt. Anymore.”  
“Can I see the pattern?” Michael asks, sliding her hand over the pants.  
“Go ahead.” Philippa hands her the PADD. Michael turns and manipulates the model, pinching in the sides, adding material to the coat, details, the chronometer ticks, Philippa watches.   
“What do you need this for?” Michael glances up from the tablet.   
“Fleet gala. Speaking of which, do you want to come? I'd love to bring you, you know, if you're okay with it.”  
“Oh...well, that seems...nice?” Michael changes the detailing on a button.   
“Michael, I get the distinct feeling that you don't want to go.”  
“No, Captain-”  
“You can call me Philippa, Michael.”  
“ _Philippa_ , I don't know what to wear to something so fancy. And I don't like...people,” Michael admits, sheepishly.   
“I can help with the first thing. Possibly not the second. How's it going over there?”  
“Nearly done.” Philippa snorts, and Michael looks up at her, watching her chuckle. “What is it?”  
“I just imagined you as a seamstress, pins in your mouth, patching clothes. Tiny little glasses. It seemed out of character and also quite funny.”  
“Oh. Well, I've finished.” Michael hands her the tablet. “Can I recycle this?” Michael mumbles, gesturing at the pile of rejected suit.   
“Yes, please. This is...wow. Good work, Michael, I'm impressed.”  
“Thank you,” Michael says, depositing the suit in the recycler.   
“Maybe you should have become a seamstress.” Philippa hops to her feet and starts linking the tablet to the replicator.   
“I'd rather be in space, thanks.” Michael watches the suit materialize before her. “You'll look fantastic.”  
“Let me show you. Go stand out on the bridge for a minute, will you?” Philippa shoos her out the door. Michael lets her, and waits for exactly two minutes before knocking on the door, politely.  
“Michael, yeah, come in!” The door slides open to show Philippa, grinning like a child at a birthday party, dressed in the suit. She spins. Michael steps in all the way.  
“You look...perfect.” The suit has sharp angles above her hips, the pants tighten enough around her calves to show her muscles, the waistcoat has gold buttons that shine along with her badge. Michael smiles.   
“Well, we need to find something for you, now.” Philippa picks up the tablet, leaning against her desk and illuminated softly by the warp light. Michael feels the image lodge in her mind. “Would you like a dress? A suit? Something else?”  
“Oh. Uh, I'm not sure. I--, well, I don't wear formal clothes.” Philippa flicks through files.   
“How about...hm. Jacket, pants, a--” Philippa peers at the tablet. “I have no idea how one would wear that top. But do you like the jacket?” Michael looks the model over a couple of times.   
“I do like it. Maybe--” Michael opens up the file editor and changes the top to a knit shirt with a loose collar. Philippa hmms.   
“Save that. Give it back.” Michael does, and hands the PADD back. Philippa continues scrolling through the pages of clothes, scanning past gowns and elaborate suits and flower-print dresses. Michael leans next to her. She watches the efficiency of Philippa's decisions, an impressive way of showing off.   
“That one. Wait.” Philippa stops on the gown, fancy, elaborate black on black stitching on the high collar, no sleeves, long. Michael examines it.   
“Interesting choice,” Philippa notes. Michael adjusts the colour first to a red, then a blue, before switching back to the black original.   
“I like the collar. The details.” Michael saves it and continues her work. Philippa looks on. Michael continues sorting, scrolling past dozens of clothes she couldn't stand to wear. Only a handful end up in her selections.   
By the time she finishes, Philippa's gotten both of them tea, and abandoned her post at Michael's shoulder in favour of reading. Michael drops the tablet and turns to see Philippa, glasses on, drinking her tea, reading one of her old books. Her suit is still on.   
“Captain?”  
“Let me see, Michael, come on!” Philippa snatches the PADD out of her hands. Michael sighs. “Mhm. Not that one--huh, nice jacket, not _that_ one,” Philippa mutters on.   
“I like that one!” Michael protests.   
“I've got it--” Philippa taps a couple buttons, and the replicator whirrs. “--there we are. Go. I want to see it on.” Philippa hops out of her seat and shoots out onto the bridge.   
“All right, Captain,” Michael grumbles, unfolding the clothes.

Michael pokes the door open one minute forty-seven seconds later. Philippa jerks her head over from the center of the bridge and bounds to the doorway, hurdling over Keyla’s station, coat flying.  
“Michael!” she shouts, sliding into the ready room and slamming the door shut. “Oh, Michael, you look gorgeous!”  
“Uh. Thank you?” Michael mumbles, scratching at the back of her neck. Philippa chuckles.  
“Come on. You look beautiful, honestly, absolutely stunning. Especially with those curls.”   
Michael blushes, running a hand through her hair. “I...I got tired of straightening it,” she admits. Philippa pats her bicep.  
“It looks nice, no matter what you do with it. Oh, are you hungry? It’s been a while since lunch, and I did forget.”  
“Okay. Yes?”  
Philippa grins. “Lovely. Sit down. Any requests?”  
“Uh. Oh, no,” Michael stammers.  
Philippa’s smile widens.  
“ _Perfect_.”

 

 

Michael adjusts the jacket over her dress, pulling at the lapel. Philippa pats her bicep.   
“You look lovely.” Philippa leans on her shoulder, arms linked.   
“So do you. And Saru. He looks amazing.” She glances back at him, chatting with a few friends, his draping dress making him look even taller.   
“I'm glad he tagged along, though it does make me feel short.”  
“He's _quite_  tall.”   
“Indeed. Are you hungry?” Philippa asks, already dragging her towards the plates.   
“Not really, but you won't take no, will you?”  
“Nope. Eat food, please.” She shoves a plate into Michael's hands and starts picking away at the food laid out in front of them. Michael goes slower, dropping small selections of meals on her plate. She keeps it nutritionally balanced through sheer habit. Philippa peeks over from her own plate, mostly covered in cookies. Michael looks at her.   
“Life is short. I want cookies.” Michael holds up a hand.   
“Understandable.”  
“If you say anything about the amount of sugar in these, I will throw my orange at you,” Philippa threatens.   
“I know. You're scary.”   
“You are, Captain.” Saru appears behind them, carrying a plate of blueberries. “Absolutely terrifying.”  
“Thanks, Saru,” Philippa grumbles.   
“Of course. Michael, how are you holding up in that dress?”  
“I'm glad I made this long enough to hide my running shoes. And the dress is nice, actually.” Saru pats her shoulder.   
“You've been smart. It looks nice on you.” Saru adjusts one of her lapels.   
“You look lovely, too, Saru.”  
“Why, thank you. Your clothes...suit you, Captain.” Saru grins and walks away, robe swishing. Philippa snorts.   
“I'm glad we've got our Saru. He's a good egg.”  
“I'm...I will tolerate his existence.”   
Philippa chokes. “Michael, you like him. He's your brother.”  
“He is _not_.”   
Philippa smiles and takes a bite out of a cookie. “He is.”  
“He--I can't argue this. Can we go for a walk? I saw a balcony on my way here.”  
“Sure. Lead the way!” Michael starts slipping through the crowd, Philippa grabbing her hand so they can't get lost. It takes a fair bit of maneuvering to get out of the main room, but the passageways are much more empty. The floors and walls ooze _wealth_. Michael shivers.   
“Should just be down here,” Michael muses, sticking her head down a hallway. Sure enough, the corridor ends with a set of large glass doors, leading out to a balcony. Michael trots down the marble-gold floors. She turns the golden door handle open with her sleeve, pushing the door open to a balcony with several chairs and a table. Michael takes their plates and sets them on the table.   
“Huh.” Philippa peers over the edge. “The stars are pretty on Earth. I forget.”  
“Yeah.” The silence holds for a moment, both of them fixated on the speckled black. “I miss the view from Vulcan.”  
“You should show me around sometime. I want to see what it's like,” Philippa offers, leaning over the rail. “Michael, are you doing okay?”  
“Yes. No. I miss Amanda. But I love this. The ship and the crew and--and you.”   
Philippa taps the railing. “Come here, Michael.” Michael obliges, and joins Philippa, who rests her arm around Michael's shoulders, holding her with care. Michael lets Philippa do so. Somewhere, she enjoys it.   
“Captain...this is nice.”  
“Good, Michael. Are you feeling all right at the party?” Philippa prods, careful.   
“It's…tolerable. I don't mind it too much,” Michael lies.   
“You don't want to be here, do you?” Philippa whispers, holding Michael's hand.   
“No. I...this dress isn't what I want to wear. I feel terrible in it. I can't stand the noise. My stomach hurts,” Michael confesses, wrapping her arms around her waist and folding inwards. Philippa rubs circle across her back.   
“I'm sorry I dragged you here. I don't want you to be uncomfortable.”  
“Oh, no, it wasn't you, I just...I was hoping I might have changed. I haven't, I suppose.” Philippa squeezes her hand.   
“It's all right. I can get us to the Shenzhou now, if you'd like. We can have dinner there? It might be nicer.”   
“Can I have a minute to look at the stars?” Michael mumbles.   
“Of course, Michael.”   
“Thank you. _Philippa_.”


	5. Chapter Five, in which Philippa Georgiou takes care of one Michael Burnham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge huge huge thanks to @prose-n-scripts on Tumblr for letting me use their lovely art as a basis for a part of this chapter!  
> (https://prose-n-scripts.tumblr.com/post/178956070329/someone-pls-be-nice-to-michael-when-shes-sick)

 

Michael retches, acid burning at her throat. She knows how dehydrated and hungry she is, and she blindly reaches for the water pack, trying to unclasp the lid, when cool fingers cross her forehead.

“Michael--oh, Michael, you look terrible.” Philippa's voice comes from behind her.

“Ph-Ph’ippa?” Michael rasps, trying to drink from the water in her bottle.

“Michael, you didn't show up for work. Why didn't you call Nambue?”

“I--thought was jus’ silly...anxiety sick,” Michael tries to explain.

“Shh, it's all okay. I'm going to call him, okay? Computer, route call, Georgiou to Nambue.” Philippa keeps her eyes on Michael the whole time, stabilizing her water pack. 

“Nambue here, Captain.”

“Can we get someone down to Lieutenant Burnham’s quarters? She seems ill, certainly quite dehydrated, possibly feverish.”

“I'll be down in a few minutes. Get her into bed, if you can.” 

“On it. Georgiou out.”

“Can't walk,” Michael whispers. 

“Would you be okay if I carried you over?” The bed in her quarters is maybe seven meters away from their current position, Philippa estimates. Certainly short enough for her to carry Michael. 

“Mmhm. Yes.” Philippa fixes her arms under Michael's knees and around her back, and with a quick heave, she carries her hastily to her bed, setting her down with care, as if she were eggshells. 

Michael curls up and takes another sip of water. “Than’ you,” she murmurs. 

“It's no problem. You thought this was anxiety?” Philippa keeps her tone even and quiet, peaceful, loving. 

“Are--mad?” Michael asks. 

“No, of course not. I just like my crew to be in the best place they can be, and I don't want you to be sick and think it's nothing,” Philippa admits, running her fingers over the inside of Michael's wrist.

“Oh.”

“I had you scheduled for a little chat with Cornwell, along with everyone else. Did you not go?” Michael nods, almost shamefully. Philippa squeezes her hand. “It's okay. Just go next time, promise me?” 

“Promise.” 

Nambue knocks at the door, then bounds in, clutching his medkit. 

“Hello, Doctor. Here's Michael.” Philippa is reluctant to leave Michael's side, and Michael seems reluctant to let her go, so she stays. Nambue runs three or four scans, before fishing around for a hypo.

“Just a stomach bug. Usually we get these things before they get too bad, but-Burnham, can you move your neck a little?-” he injects the hypo. “-now she's on bed rest today. Keep her company, will you, Philippa?”

“Of course. If you don't mind--?” Michael manages a weak grin in response. Nambue hooks a hydrating pack up to her arm, and a monitor patch now sits on her shoulder.

“Remember, Lieutenant, it's better to show up in Sickbay with a false injury than it is to call me out because you ignored symptoms.” Nambue wipes the surface of the hypo and refills it, dropping it in Philippa's hand. “That's for tonight. Tomorrow you should be back to normal. Drink water!” Nambue shouts, walking out the door. Philippa rests the back of her hand against Michael's warm forehead. 

“Oh, Michael. Can I get you anything?” Philippa slips her hand into Michael's, weaving their fingers together. 

“Water? Please,” Michael manages, her words rough. 

“Of course.” Philippa shuffles the sheets back under Michael and tucks her under the blanket. Michael curls up in the little nest. 

“Thank you,” Michael mumbles. 

“Oh, Michael.” Philippa hands her the glass of water, helps her lift the glass to her lips. “Do you want me to do your paperwork?” 

“Mph. Please?” Michael isn't sure if Philippa's allowed to do her work, but she won't question her. 

“Definitely. I know it's not the right time, but your hair looks quite good on you all curly. It's endearing.” Michael feels her cheeks warm and prays that Philippa will blame it on her fever. 

“Thank you…” Michael croaks. Philippa sandwiches Michael's hand between hers.

“Do you want a book, a tablet?” Michael manages to grab her PADD off the table and flick it on.

"No, ca-p," Michael whispers, and Philippa leans down to look at the book she's pulling up.

"If you want, you can see the Shenzhou production of Hamlet. Saru managed to set up a camera.” 

“You--” Michael coughs. “Hamlet?”

“Yes, I was indeed Hamlet. Keyla offered herself as Ophelia, and did a lovely job at it. Saru refused to participate. Next time around, you should join us. I think next up is Macbeth.”

“I--my school,” Michael hacks, “had that. Was the, the Lady,” Michael manages. 

“Hm. Well, perhaps you'd like to take her on again.” Philippa pulls the PADD out of her limp fingers, and starts retrieving the video.  

“Was...was fun. Should, can do it again.”

“Wonderful. I suppose I'll get cast as Macbeth himself. The crew seems reluctant to play the lead roles, though I insist that they would be better at it than me.” Michael nods. “Ah, here we go. Hamlet, presented by the cast of the Shenzhou, for you!” Philippa exclaims, rather dramatic. She places the tablet back in Michael's hand. 

“Mph.” Michael's word of thanks comes out as a mumble. 

“Move over a little and I'll watch with you,” Philippa barters, already scooching onto the bed. Michael holds the tablet in her fever-warm hands and watches as Philippa settles herself next to her. 

“Thank you,” Michael croaks. Philippa chuckles and musses up Michael’s hair.

“No worries, sweetie.” The words slip out of Philippa’s mouth before she can stop them. Michael doesn’t seem to notice. Philippa presses play on the recording, and watches Michael’s  tired yet fascinated gaze on Januzzi and Rhys, shooting their dialogue back and forth for a minute, until Joann enters as Horatio, and Michael’s eyes start fixating fully on the screen, as the play continues. 

Philippa cringes at her ‘alas, poor Yorick!’ line, though Michael lets out a tiny giggle at her drama. The play is one of Philippa’s favourite memories, a photo of the crew, still in costume, immediately after the performance, laughing, hangs on her wall, but still she aches for Michael to join her onstage. 

 

_ She would be a wonderful Lady Macbeth… _

 

Her mind wanders in a confusing direction, muddling her thoughts, so she redirects it to a happiness of maybe convincing Michael to play the lead and give Philippa a break. 

Michael snorts again. 

“You--Joann, she,” Michael manages, fascinated by Philippa’s overly theatrical death scene, held in Joann’s arms.

“Wait for it, Michael,” Philippa teases, steadying the tablet. Joann’s Shakespearean talk is perfect, and she manages a tear, even, as she leans down to kiss Philippa/Hamlet, before their death. Michael chokes. Philippa’s grin is blinding. 

“Is--” Michael stops herself and shakes her head. 

“It was lovely. It’s not like the text says they  _ don’t  _ kiss.” 

“What?” Michael rasps, coughing.

“I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

“I sup--” Michael wipes her nose, “suppose.”

They finish the rest of the play in companionable silence, Michael’s head now resting on Philippa’s shoulder.

The audience cheers and the video cuts out. Michael shifts into what Philippa assumes is her natural sleeping position, which appears very uncomfortable. Philippa flips onto her side and tosses the PADD onto Michael’s sidetable.

"Do you always sleep so stiffly, Michael?" Philippa teases, staring at Michael's disgruntled form. Michael sniffles and, in one fluid motion, wraps her arms around Philippa's waist and back, drawing her in for a hug, like a child and a loved stuffed animal. Philippa yelps, mostly out of shock. Michael exhales in comfort. Philippa's face contorts into confusion, though Michael's embrace is very welcome.

"Not always," Michael murmurs, her throat hoarse. She buries her face in Philippa's shoulder,

"Oh, Michael, this is sweet of you," Philippa whispers in response, settling into Michael's grip and winding her arms around her waist in response. She kisses the tip of Michael's reddened nose. Michael purrs. "You'll feel better in the morning."

"Hope so," Michael grates. Philippa strokes her back.

"Just hold on for a little. I'm here if you wake up, okay?" Philippa tucks her hair behind her ears.

"'mkay," Michael mumbles, curling up in Philippa's comforting grip.

"Sleep well,  _ bibi _ ."

  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter Six, in which Philippa Georgiou has a revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yes the Milippa Content you came to see has begun!

  
  
  


"Hey, Michael?" Philippa's hand appears on Michael's shoulder, and she jumps.

"Oh. Captain?"

"Again, it's Philippa. Will you come with me? I agreed to help Januzzi with his vegetables, and forgot that I can't...well, I can't--grow plants?" Philippa's face grows confused at the end of her sentence. She shakes her head. "I just guessed you might know something. Because of all that knowledge you've absorbed."

"I can try to help. I did help Amanda with her garden." Michael picks up her walking speed to match Philippa's. 

"Oh, thank the Gods. I can't tell you how many plants I killed before my mother gave up. So many."

"I'm not that good, Philippa. I just have the one flower." Michael's mind flicks back to the Vulcan flowering vine in her room, the flat, shiny leaves, the pale purple buds. Amanda gave it to her before she left, a reminder of her home.

"That's better than I could manage. I kill every plant within a twenty-AU radius."

"That exaggeration is false, Captain, and unnecessary."

Philippa groans. "I thought you'd have stopped being so  _ logical _ about such silly things."

"I'm just stating a fact." Michael tries to keep her face flat but fails, smirking.

"By the stars. There's a grin." Philippa shoves her shoulder, playful and grinning herself. "Promise you won't be so rude with Januzzi?"

"I'll try. Computer, lights!" The botany lab shines to life, and flickers out again, long enough for Michael to catch the silhouette of Januzzi, crouched in front of a tray-style pot, flashlight in hand.

"Hey, Captain, Commander. Sorry. The lights keep going out," Troy explains, poking at what appears to be a root vegetable with a polymer rod.

"Oh, Shenzhou, are you being rude to Mister Januzzi? Stop it," Philippa says, poking the door frame.

"The Shenzhou is an inanimate object, Captain. It can't hear you."

" _ She _ can hear me, Michael, and she knows she's being ornery." Philippa taps the nearest panel three times with the soft side of her fist. The lights flicker back on. "There we go. I'll have it checked out at the next starbase, Januzzi. I'm sorry."

"It's no problem. Can you take take a look at these carrots? I can't figure out what's wrong." Michael drops to her knees, grabs a small skewer, and starts inspecting the leaves. Philippa blinks. Michael looks at the vegetables with an intensity Philippa's not seen before outside of true crises.

"The water's oversaturated with minerals. The filter's malfunctioning," Michael states, with finality. "Just grab a new one, they're still salvageable."

"Well, Number One, that was...fast." Januzzi seems to share her same incredulous expression.

"Yeah, Commander, are you sure you should be in command?"

"Yes. Can I do anything else for you?" Michael asks, perfectly polite, hands tight behind her back.

"Well, we've got some mushrooms growing, but we can't figure out the proper wood to grow them on. Maybe you could lend a hand?"

"Of course." Michael's voice is as unemotional as normal, but her eyes shine in a way familiar to Philippa. 

"I'd offer my help, but I really know nothing about this," Philippa jokes, following them anyway.

"You can...yeah, I'm sorry, Captain. Maybe you can just walk around? There's some nice flowers." Januzzi shrugs and hands Michael a pair of rubber gloves. "Commander, they don't enjoy human touch, really."

"Skin oils?" Michael prods at the nearest mushroom, spongy, off-white. She bites her lip, intensely focused. 

Philippa nearly passes out with the realization.

 

_ I love Michael. _

 

It hits her, unwelcome, unexpected, a slam to her throat. She tries her best to hide it outwardly, though she knows she must be ghostly white and trembling, and probably sweating pretty badly.

"Captain, are you all right?" Michael asks, concerned, a small vial with a sample contained inside pinched between her fingers.

"Yes, I just...I just need a walk." Philippa turns and walks away without another glance in their direction. She's sure Michael must be concerned over her strange behaviour, but hopes she'll be more interested in Januzzi's specimen than Philippa. She ducks into the second half of the lab. Officially, this segment is a lab, but unofficially, it's a garden. Flowers of every kind grow out of the walls. Nano-bots, formatted to appear like bees, fly around, pollinating.

Philippa sits. The floor is cool against her legs, through her uniform. Her hands clench instinctively.

 

_ I am not in love with Michael. _

 

She fights her heart down.

 

_ I can't be. _

 

Her mind is drawn back to her Angela. She knows what love is. It is destructive. It can only fire back at her.

 

_ But I am. _

 

"No," she mumbles, resting her head against a stack of terracotta pots.

 

_ But I am! _

 

A small part of her mind is fighting her instinct, fighting her thoughts. Philippa knows this part will never go away. She knows the soreness well. Her lungs work double-time, her hands are sweaty.

 

_ I am. _

 

Philippa wants to break into sobs. It hurts her, hurts her soul, her mind that her weakness is too close. She thinks a stray tear leaks out onto her terrible pillow.

_ What about Angela? _ a spiteful, bitter part of her mind protests. It hurts her more.

"Angela..." Philippa whispers, and she feels her mind blister. She can't control her muscles anymore. Her soul has left her body with a whimper.

"Captain?" Michael comes into view, through blurry eyes that can't be Philippa's. Philippa reaches for her. Her body doesn't move, just a twitch of the finger. "Captain?! Philippa, what's happening?"

_ You are in love with  _ Michael Burnham _! _ her mind squeals . 

Philippa jerks upright.

"Michael, I'm sorry, I was just half-asleep. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Oh." Michael says, clearly not believing Philippa's story, but holds out a hand to help her up. Philippa takes it, gratefully.

"I'm sorry. Did you figure out what that mushroom needed?" Philippa's fake smile seems to mostly convince Michael of her truth.

"We did. It doesn't grow on wood. It needs rock." Michael's eyes gleam with renewed vigour. "It's quite intriguing, actually. The mushroom can't handle oils, or really moisture of any kind, though they do provide hydration to humans and human-adjacent species, which is a welcome development for drought-stricken planets."

"Really?" Philippa's eyebrows raise. "That's...well, revolutionary. How do the spores spread?"

"They attach to nitrogen molecules and latch on until they hit a rock. I need to run a few more tests, but I think they might be able to survive the vacuum of space." Michael's eyes are gleaming with a distinct Michael-style brilliance, and Philippa feels it twist her gut in the most pleasant way possible.

"That--Michael, you've stumbled onto something fantastic, as usual. Would you be willing to work with Mister Januzzi on this discovery? I can get you off the bridge for a little while at least." Philippa suggests this, and her soul makes a sad whimper.

 

_ Then, she'll be gone. You won't see her! _

 

_ Then I can  _ think _. _

 

"Oh, Captain, I do love the bridge...perhaps we could work out some split-shifts?" Michael offers, and Philippa smiles, a part of her relieved.

"I think I can do that." A thought bubbles to the surface of her mind, and she tries to resist asking, but she can't. "Does it taste good?"

"What?" Michael looks at her, confused.

"The mushroom. Does it taste good?" 

"I...don't know. It's edible, though, certainly," Michael confirms, her face still completely lost.

"Ceremonial tasting?"

"Uh. All right?" Michael gets dragged by Philippa to the specimen, not sure of what's happening.

"Can you grab a little piece?" Philippa asks, handing her a pair of clippers. Michael slices off a sliver from an edge, and, with scientific precision, cuts it in half and hands one half to Philippa.

"Can I have some?" Januzzi appears to Michael's side and looks at the mushroom in their hands.

"Of course." Philippa twists hers in half. "On three. If it's disgusting I want us all to feel it at the same time."

"Okay, Captain." Michael tugs down her shirt and adjusts her stance.

"To science." Philippa lifts her mushroom sliver. Michael and Troy do the same, and echo her words. "One, two, three!" Philippa shoves the mushroom in her mouth, Michael takes a proper bite, and Januzzi seems to have employed Philippa's strategy.

Nothing happens.

The mushroom is nearly tasteless.

"Well, that's kind of disappointing. I did wonder what it would feel like to eat foam, though," Philippa says, making a face. Michael lets out a tiny chuckle, and it sticks in Philippa's ears, the sound enough to ascend her soul to a new plane of reality.

"It tastes like whole wheat bread, but with a sixteenth of the flavour," Januzzi comments, still chewing.

"That statement is surprisingly accurate."

Philippa finally manages to swallow the mushroom.

"It  _ is _ hydrating. Michael, you've really found something here. I'm proud of you two."

"Thank you, Captain," Michael says, standing just a fraction taller. Philippa smiles.

"No problem. Can I help with any fun science?" 

"I mean, we were gonna drop mushroom cells into different chemicals to see what happens," Januzzi says, his eyes opening.

"Sounds amazing. I'm in." Philippa grins. "I miss doing fun science."

"I'm sure you do, Captain. Help us get samples?" Michael slides open a drawer to pull out a package of vials. 

"Why not? I don't trust myself near plants, though, so maybe you should gather the samples." Michael hands her a few tubes.

"Just open these and hold them out for me." Michael slides off her gloves and replaces them, starting to shave off some little mushroom fragments with a strange contraption, capturing the curls of shaved-off skin. "Ensign, do you think twenty samples are enough?" Michael asks, over her shoulder.

"That's certainly enough to start with. We'll get more later once we can grow a few more." Philippa screws the cap onto another vial, setting it gently into a tray. Michael smiles at her. Philippa almost drops a sample.

"That's the last one, Captain. Thank you." 

Philippa grins. “Is it science time?”

“Grab that tray. Then we'll get to the lab bay, and then it's  _ science time _ ,” Michael instructs. Philippa lifts the tray, carefully, and follows Michael and Januzzi out the door. 

 

Thankfully, the lab bay is only a short walk down the corridor. Philippa’s jumpy enough that she's sure she'll drop the samples. Michael doesn't seem to pick up on Philippa's unease. 

 

_ Thank the Gods for that. Can't have Michael on my tail right now.  _

 

“Captain, are you all right?” Michael stops to talk to Philippa. 

 

_ Shit.  _

 

“Oh, Michael, I'm okay. I'm glad you're making sure, though.”

“Philippa, please, I don't think you're okay,” Michael whispers, out of Januzzi’s earshot. 

“Michael, I'm just a little off. I'll be better tomorrow,” Philippa lies.

 

_ This won't go away.  _

 

“Are you sure?” Michael's skeptical again. 

“I'm all right. I just need a little bit of time.”

 

_ Or a lot, Pippa. _

 

“Okay. If that's what'll help.” Michael guides her into the lab, nearly empty, and once a stark white that faded of years of spills. Philippa sets her samples down on the table.  

“Can I do anything?” she asks. A pair of safety glasses gets handed to her by Michael, and she slides them on, watching Januzzi pull out several containers, most of which appear to be empty.

“You can watch. You’re not properly certified to do any experiments in here, but I suppose you can start writing down observations,” Michael replies, wiping down the table.

“Right, then. I just--?”

Michael points at the side room with a window facing into the lab. “In there.”

“Good luck. Try not to be on the business end of an explosion.”

“Will do, though some of these chemicals really don’t seem to obey any of the laws of...well, anything. Commander, grab the glove setup, please?” Several sentences of scientific nonsense reach Philippa’s ears as she leaves the lab, striding into the observation room.

Michael zips up her protective suit and helps Januzzi into his. She stretches her fingers in the gloves, Philippa watching, highly amused, from the other room. Troy sets out the test containers on the transport pad, aligning them on the proper guiding circles. Michael wheels the glove panel out in front of the table. It clicks into place, and Michael locks the wheels.

The forcefield shimmers to life, dividing the room.

“After you, Mister Januzzi,” Michael offers. He nods and hands her the transport control tablet.

“Ready, Commander.”

“Ready, Lieutenant.” Michael clicks the first transport on. It crackles into existence on the table. Januzzi’s hands reach carefully through the gloves, unscrewing the top of the container for the strange, viscous, orange chemical, plucking a sample from the tray and plucking the plastic cork out.

“Trial one,” Januzzi states. He drops the mushroom sliver into the substance. It bubbles slightly, the mixture releasing a small puff of steam. 

Michael and Troy continue their experiments. Philippa stares off. Her mind bounces off itself. 

 

_ I love Michael.  _

 

_ I do love her. But it's been a while…is this what love feels like? _

 

_ It is. _

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

Philippa lets her mind wander to what Michael's lips might feel like against hers. 

 

_ They'd be textured. You know how she bites her lips. _

 

_ Soft, though. _

 

_ Her hands are always warm. I suppose her lips would be similar.  _

 

_ Is she even attracted to women? Or anyone, for that matter? _

 

The thought squeaks its way into her mind, rearing its unpleasant head.  

 

_ Her lips probably taste sweet.  _

 

_ I wonder what her hair looks like out of its bowl cut. _

 

A cheer comes from the lab, Michael smiling as sparks come from the container, shining. She turns and makes eye contact with Philippa.

Philippa's heart skips. Michael's eyes are huge, pupils dilated with sheer enjoyment, grinning. She looks as if she's seen the whole of the universe. Stars sparkle in her eyes, her cheeks flush, she smiles. 

Philippa feels the love hit her straight in the chest. Michael is stunning, so  _ beautiful _ , Philippa might just die. Her hands are shaking as the experiment continues, something protective stirring in her chest, but she leans against the windowsill, rests her chin in her hand, and observes Michael in her element. 

 

_ This isn't so bad.  _


	7. Chapter Seven, in which Michael Burnham reveals an unknown talent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is quite obviously the most self-indulgent nonsense ive ever written

Michael stands stiffly next to Philippa, hand awkwardly clutching a green plastic cup filled with water. Philippa elbows her in the side. 

“Michael, you look like a statue. This is the best time to do anything you think might be embarrassing--and knowing you, it won't be embarrassing at  _ all _ \--because everyone's kind of...not fully present,” Philippa explains, rather loudly over the music. “If you're not enjoying yourself, you don't have to stay. I just wanted to show you the bird.” Michael glances at the two-metre-tall plush owl, covered in string lights and a party hat too small for its large head. She stifles a grin.

“I...what is embarrassing here? I observe only screaming, loud music, and flashing lights,” Michael states, leaning in. 

“Well.” Philippa scans the room for a moment before grabbing Michael's wrist and towing her over to a corner. Michael stumbles but follows her anyway, boots clicking against the floor. “First thing. Take off your badge.”

“Why?” Michael inquires, reluctantly removing her badge and tucking it into her uniform pocket. 

“So you don't look like you're on duty. You’re still wearing your uniform, which is odd, so at least make it look like you were just rushed to get here.” Michael sweeps across Philippa’s own uniform, casually unzipped in the front to show her SHENZ shirt, and spots the outline of her badge in her pocket, before formulating a response.

“That is illogical. This is a  _ party,  _ being late would accrue no penalties,” Michael says, standing with perfect posture.

“Gods,” Philippa groans, mostly in jest. “I’m sorry, Michael. That’s very  _ logical _ of you. But not all people are logical.”

Michael starts a reply, but gets interrupted by Philippa dragging her away. She protests.

“Shh. Trust me,” Philippa shouts back at her.

“I do trust you, but not right now!” They slide to a halt in front of an empty segment of poorly-lit space, possibly a makeshift stage, judging by the microphone lying in the middle of the area. Michael wracks her brains to figure out what the setup could be for. Philippa's devilish grin does nothing to assuage Michael's worried confusion, especially since noticing Narwani in her tactical helmet sitting on a stool right at the centre of the stage, chatting with a crewman obscured by dim lighting. 

Lights flicker, colours appearing and disappearing, as someone tinkers with the light settings. It settles on a pleasant blue-purple. Michael takes a sip of her water, watching the alien crewman make their way to the stage. Her bewilderment increases. 

“Michael, you don't know what this is?” Philippa whispers, obnoxiously loud. 

“I do not. Yet,” Michael responds, sensing the grin on Philippa's face. 

“Good. A surprise.” 

Jira’s helmet lights up, the crewmember picks up the microphone, and a quiet guitar-like backing track blots out the background music. Michael looks at Philippa with a quizzical expression. 

“What–”

“Shh!” Philippa hushes, as the performer starts singing in a lilting, unfamiliar language. Michael watches. Philippa's hand grabs her wrist in a claw-like grip, too excited. Michael reaches over to pry her fingers away, still entranced by the singer. Philippa whispers a ‘ _ sorry!’ _ .

“This is--” Michael digs around in her mind for the proper word. “ _ Karaoke?  _ Is that right?”

“Yes! And  _ you _ are going to participate.” Philippa pokes her in the shoulder. Michael blinks and scrunches her face. 

“Pardon me, Captain?” Michael tries to keep her composure. 

“I mean...you don't have _ to, _ if you're not interested, it's just...I really want you to sing for us,” Philippa explains. “When Cornel here is done, go talk to Jira, and she’ll play your song for you and project the lyrics on her helmet.”

“Oh.”

“I know you can sing. I've heard you,” Philippa states, gleefully. 

Michael furrows her brow. “How?”

“Last time we had too much paperwork. You were singing under your breath. It was lovely.” Philippa grins. Michael reddens a shade. 

“I–I didn't realize. But, I suppose I should try this.”

 

“You want to?” Philippa asks, resting a hand on Michael’s back.

“I--yes. I do. I can’t sing that well, though…”

“It's all right. Now, go.” Philippa shoves her gently in Jira’s direction, with a chuckle. Applause surrounds them as Cornel bows. Michael manages to snag Jira’s attention before Keyla does, and ducks down to tell Narwani her song of choice. 

“Good luck, Lieutenant. I wouldn't have taken you for the singer type,” Jira whispers, helmet beeping. 

“Neither would I.” Michael takes a deep breath, and unzips her jacket, the air cold on her neck. She blends in more. 

“You'll be great. Captain ask you?”

“Yeah.” Jira pats her shoulder, somewhat awkwardly. “We've all been there. Everyone knows she asked you to do it. No one cares, don't worry,” she assures. Michael rubs her arms together, nervous, and approaches the microphone. 

Philippa gives her a thumbs-up from the crowd, Saru has appeared and looks thoroughly amused, and Keyla grins, face similar to Saru's. Narwani’s helmet flashes several colours and brings up the first few lyrics.  Michael closes her eyes and nods at Jira, clenching her fingers around the microphone. 

The familiar guitar chords kick in, and Michael takes the moment to count in the four-four time, instinct. Eyes watch her, most fuzzy. 

 

_ One, two, three, four. _

 

_ One, two, three, four. _

 

The first line comes from her lips as if it was created there, the words fresh in her mind. She can see Philippa's jaw drop from on stage. 

 

_ “I-I-I hear the sirens calling  _

 

_ And the bombs are falling _

 

_ In the streets we're all _

 

_ Screwed!” _

 

Michael yells into the microphone, her nerves shedding. She can't say she's dancing, quite, but she is screaming, and she bends with the force. She is grinning. Her jacket spins with her, through a small leap of imagination, a cape. 

Philippa laughs and cheers, watching Michael sing the words as if they'd sprung from her soul. The song bears the trademarks of twenty-first century music, and despite Philippa's disinterest in that time period of music, it sounds perfect out of Michael's mouth. 

 

“ _ We'll put water in your guns _ __   
  


_ We'll do it all for fun _ __   
  


_ Let's get  _

 

_ screwed!” _

 

Michael yells, fully absorbed into the music, voice clear, and stomping about the stage, power in her step. Philippa’s stomach jolts at Michael’s perfectly-timed stomp to a bass hit. She observes the out of character intensity, the acting of her character, the leaps across the stage, the strange, throaty voice that comes out from the questions. It is altogether amusing,  _ fascinating _ , even. Philippa chuckles as Michael executes a perfect jump-spin. Michael’s hair has begun to curl again, the sweat loosening the hold of its straighten, leaving a large puff of frizzing hair that adds to the overall effect. She looks  _ wild _ . 

 

_ She looks gorgeous. _

 

The thought slams into Philippa, playing with her heartbeat, though not a revelation. She has always been aware of the natural beauty of her new protégée. The fact is empirical. And yet she seems more beautiful now, appearing slightly disheveled, her uniform uncharacteristically unzipped, hair loose, bounding across a stage, clutching a microphone. Her heart forms a strange twist.

Michael sweeps across her performance area, tips her head up and stands in profile, one foot on her toes, the other one flat. She takes a deep breath before continuing with the song. Jira's helmet barely gets a glance. 

 

_ “See, everything is sex _ __   
  


_ Except sex, which is power _ __   
  


_ You know power is just sex _ __   
  


_ You screw me and I'll screw you too!” _

 

Michael never talks with such harsh language anywhere near her captain, or at all, really. The words get stronger, they crescendo, into a final chorus, then wind down all the way to the last ‘ _ for real.’ _

Michael lets the music fade. Her breathing is heavy, and she wipes sweat off her forehead. Philippa starts clapping. More people follow suit, until Michael floats in applause, nervous and shaking now, mumbling her thanks, and still clutching the microphone like a tether to reality. She hops off the stage and returns to the safety of Philippa's side. 

“Michael. Holy  _ shit,  _ Michael,” Philippa gapes, staring at her in awe. Michael snorts. 

“What?”

“You know  _ exactly _ what. That was sorcery. And I like your taste in music.” Philippa leans into Michael's side a little. “Do you want to leave now?”

“That was fun, but…I'm done. Sorry, Philippa,” Michael shrugs. 

“No, no, don't apologize. Back to my quarters for some tea?” Philippa asks, though it comes off more as a command. 

“Okay,” Michael agrees, head buzzing with noise. Her heart thumps over the excess of adrenaline in her system. 

And maybe something else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song used is Screwed by Janelle Monae.


	8. Chapter Eight, in which Michael Burnham takes care of one Philippa Georgiou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big big big thanks to @georgiov on tumblr for letting me use their headcanon for this chapter (http://georgiov.tumblr.com/post/179507327089/in-relation-to-the-prime-version-of-my-headcanon) they're absolutely wonderful!

 

Michael keys in Philippa's passcode, her concern rising as the panel buzzes for the third time. She pokes each number with precision. The buzz fills her ears again, along with a pop-up prompting her to reset the passcode. Michael sighs. She sticks her fingernail behind the panel and pulls just a little, dislodging the screen enough for her to stick a finger behind the plane of plastic. She yanks the panel off the wall. Her fingers pick at the wiring in a practiced motion, shoving a wire to the right and poking at the gel pack, until the door inches open. Michael slips in before the doors clap shut. 

“Captain?” she asks, sweeping the deserted room. Searing dread curls in her center. “Philippa? Computer, lights!” The dimmed quarters brighten, making Michael blink in adjustment. A cracked mug is lying on its side a few feet to Michael's right, a chair is tipped over, several plates of mostly untouched food sit on the table, a uniform jacket is tossed carelessly on the ground, a pile of blankets is heaped on the couch. Michael gapes. 

“Michael?” The phrase comes as a weak question as Philippa stumbles out of her bedroom, shrouded in a quilt. She leans against the doorframe. Michael can see her uniform pants still on, the way her eyes are shiny and her cheeks are tacky. 

“Captain...oh, Philippa, what's going on?” Philippa's knees buckle, her hand pressing heavy against the doorframe. Her head bows. 

“I...I..,” Philippa coughs, quiet. Michael picks her way through the debris, avoiding the upturned chair. Her arms tighten around Philippa's trembling frame. Philippa’s fingers scrabble at her back, clutching the stiff fabric in clenched fists. She leans heavily on Michael. 

“Philippa, it's okay,” Michael assures, stroking circles across her spine. Philippa responds with an incoherent slur of words. Michael hooks the upside-down chair with her foot, pulling it towards them. She flips it upright with a flick of her ankle and a steadying grab. Philippa sits, clutching Michael’s hand tight between hers.

“..Michael, I’m so--” she chokes, “--so sorry, Michael, Michael…” She trails off, her eyes deepset in dark circles. 

“For what?  _ I _ should have been here this morning. Have you eaten anything?” Michael’s thumbs stroke against Philippa’s cheeks. Philippa glances down, mumbling a ‘no’. Her shoulders still tremble. Michael tucks Philippa's wild hair behind her ears as she murmurs, "Would you be all right with some soup?”

"Of course," Philippa responds, a crackling, husky whisper. 

"You need water, too," Michael adds, scrolling through the replicator menu for a meal. "Have you had any water today?"

"No," Philippa mumbles. "I...don't feel well." Michael watches the food appear in a husk of sparks.

"You need to eat, Philippa. What's going on?" Michael deposits the soup in front of Philippa, who seems to be retreating into herself. Michael hands Philippa the water glass. She takes a tiny sip with a grateful smile. 

"I don't...it's a bad time, tomorrow. I don't want you to be here for that."

“Why?” Michael asks, worry bubbling. She presses her hand to Philippa's forehead.

"Computer, play audio file six - eight - seven - three, authorization Georgiou." Philippa immediately hunches over the steam rising from her soup.

"Playing," the computer announces. Michael is aware of what must be an incredible look of confusion on her face.

"Hello, Michael. I assume you're the one listening to this.” Philippa’s voice fills the room, the image of a fully formed and powerful Philippa standing in her ready room with her hands clasped behind her back manifesting in Michael's mind. The disconnected voice continues. "October twenty-first is the anniversary of Nikos' death. I killed him. And it does haunt me, but I've told you the story before. I don't know what day it is-if it's the twentieth I'm a mess, if it's the twenty-first you found me in bed, completely disconnected from reality."

Michael realizes she's tossed her arm across Philippa's shoulders. 

"I'm sorry you had to see me this way. Please, try and get me some food and water. I won't eat on the day of, but I'll drink a hydration packet if it's in my line of sight. And-" Michael can almost hear the pause of Philippa adjusting her stance "-please stay with me. It's more than I should ask from you, Michael, but I need it. If you need to leave, leave, but please, if it's in your power--" Michael feels the way that this recorded Philippa does need it, and her mind is still bouncing off the inside of her skull."--stay. Just give me time. I shouldn't ask this much of you, Michael, but I'm going to.  _ Please _ . There's a list of things to avoid and things to help that should come up on my display." Philippa's voice fades from the room. Michael holds Philippa tightly in her arms. Philippa whimpers, a sound of exhaustion. 

"I'll stay, Philippa. Is this okay?" Michael murmurs. Philippa nudges her head in her shoulder.

"It's....good." The words come out rough and unpracticed, as if her mouth were full of sandpaper and coated in sticky honey. "I..."

"Oh." Michael sighs in though. "Can you type? Sign?" Philippa opens her mouth to speak, but releases only a heavy exhale. Her fingers reach for a PADD. A handful of words spill out to a blank note.

 

_ I can type. Not long. I can sign. Not long either. _

 

"Is it because…” Michael trails off, unsure of where she was going. 

 

_ shake _ , Philippa types, and Michael sees the tremble in her fingers even now. Philippa pulls at a ping at the top of the display. An organized list appears, and Philippa deposits it in Michael's hand.

"Okay," Michael says, glancing up and down the list. "Should I get you some tea?" Philippa nods, a soup-filled spoon in her hand. "I'll get you more comfortable clothes." Philippa counts the spoonfuls of broth she swallows, two, three, five, seven, and each time an involuntary spill from her eyes drips into the bowl, seven, twelve, sixteen, twenty-two. Michael returns with a mug of tea and a neatly folded set of Starfleet pyjamas. 

“Philippa?” Michael ducks her head to meet Philippa's eye. 

“Mh.”

“Here,” Michael says, sliding the mug to her hand. Philippa nods in thanks. “I brought you some pyjamas.” Philippa makes an uncomfortable face, pushing the red and black fabric away with her shoulder. 

“Hurt,” Philippa grates, her word sharp and quiet. 

“Okay. Is the...is the fabric too rough?” Michael tucks the clothes away. A prick of memory reminds her of Philippa's sensory issues, the suit she helped design. Philippa nods. 

“Box.”

“Storage boxes? Which one?” Philippa holds up three trembling fingers with no little effort. She winces at the firing burn of her muscles, her arm dropping several inches. Michael's face contorts to concern. “Let's get you into bed, Philippa. Here--” Michael leans out and wraps an arm around Philippa's waist, taking most of her weight. Philippa stumbles out of the chair on new legs. 

“Thank..-.you-” Philippa rasps. Michael smiles, helping Philippa through the doorway. 

“It's all okay, Philippa.”

“To...--” Philippa heaves. “-to--morrow.” Michael lowers Philippa onto the bed, the tremors through her body crumpling the sheets. Philippa instinctively curls into a ball. 

“I'll stay here all day.” Michael rifles through Philippa's storage box, emerging with a soft pair of grey pants and a blue shirt with a simple navy pattern on the top right quadrant. “Are these okay?” Philippa turns. She points at the shirt and brings her fingertips to her lips and her hand down flat again, her face halted between terrified and disapproving. Michael tosses the shirt back. “I'm sorry, Philippa. Is–” Michael holds up a plain black shirt “–is this one fine?” Philippa nods almost imperceptibly, her eyes glassy, tears gathering across her neutral face. “Can you get into these?” Philippa bows her head, grasping for the clothes with unfocused eyes. “I'll get a few hydration packets.” 

Michael reluctantly leaves the room, searching for Philippa's medkit. She searches through the debris for the trademark red box. Her eyes sweep the room again, her mind keeping all the small details she picks up in storage for a later date, the names of the books spilled off their shelves, the type of salad left in a bowl, the name of the flowers and the relative date of the vase they're in. The cracked mug still sits at the entrance. Michael picks it up and leaves it on the table, admiring the birds carefully painted on the handle. She spots the bright red tin next to the door. Her fingers snatch it off the wall, undoing the clasps and rifling through the stacks of medical supplies. The hydration packets meet her hands. She pulls them out from under a stack of gauze, carefully clicking the box shut again. Michael pads silently out of the room. 

"Philippa, finished?" she asks, pausing for a moment outside the door.   
"Hm." Philippa's uniform sits on the ground in a crumpled heap. Philippa herself is shrouded in many layers of blankets, her eyes only barely visible in the shroud.   
"Oh. Should I..." Michael trails off, holding out the hydration packets. Philippa sticks the front half of her firearms out of her cocoon and makes a very shaky rendition of 'table'. "You'll drink them there?" Philippa's arms retreat back into her shell. She nods. "Anything else? Some pillows?" Michael rests her hand on Philippa's bicep, buried under several layers of duvet. Philippa's hands peek out again,  clapping open and closed. Philippa's forefinger twitches inwards, unintentionally. Philippa repeats the motion.   
"Do you want me to read to you?" Philippa shakes her head. She stops for a moment to think, before her hands flick again. "Oh. You just want to hold it?" Philippa nods. "That's okay. Hold on."  
Philippa counts her teardrops again, three, six, eight, nine, eleven. Michael gives her the book, and she finds the texture of the puffy, water-damaged pages comfortably familiar, she breathes a deep breath of the lovely smell before pulling it into her nest with a shaky sigh. The grip of her endless guilt is too close. 

“I..” Michael's brain has ceased working. “Do you want me to be close to you?” Philippa flicks her chin up a little bit more. 

“Please?” Philippa manages, her jaw working in an unfamiliar pattern. She still feels light-years away. Michael lowers herself onto the mattress, her arm draped in the divot between Philippa's hip and ribs. Philippa jerks into a tight nest of Michael and blankets. Her knees curl up. She rests her head against Michael's collarbone, a few stray chunks of her hair tickle at Michael's throat. 

“This is...good,” Michael says, half an affirmation and half a confused ramble.

"Mhm," Philippa whispers, her eyes closed, tucked securely in Michael's arms and her layers and layers of blankets. She takes a wavering deep breath.    
"I'll be here tomorrow. I promise. Get some sleep?" Michael returns. Philippa nods with a small flick of her chin. Philippa cycles through heavy exhales and shaky inhales, her eyes firmly closed and a few tears slipping through the tight lids. Michael strokes her back in circles.     
It takes a significant amount of time, forty-six minutes if Michael's internal clock is working properly, before Philippa's breathing settles into a resting pattern. Michael waits another six and a half minutes before disentangling herself. She sweeps up and let her toes brush against the floor, before padding, noiseless, out into the main room.   
"Captain," Michael whispers, scolding. She stacks the books back on the shelf in alphabetical order, feeling the different textures of the old and newer texts, the ones with peeling spines and the ones with distinct covers. They fall in place as if they were controlled by an external force. Michael smiles at her work, tossing the last book between her hands. She flips it open to the flyleaf. An overworked sketch sits on the inside, a profile of a distinctive Philippa, younger, with a haircut that might be considered Victorian if it weren't for the undercut. A cadet's uniform is vague but still recognizable. Michael stares, traces her finger over the powerful eyes, the flat, displeased emotion on her lips. A stardate is scrawled in the bottom corner in chicken-scratch penmanship. 

"Twenty-two...twenty-eight?" Michael muses, trying to pick out the individual numbers in the scrawl. The lines are barely-there scratches on the soft yellow page. "Six..no, nineteen?" She remembers Philippa's birthdate, her mind calculating the age. Philippa looks brighter in this faint scribble. Michael sets the book back in its gap on the bookshelf, the sketch seeming more eerie. 

She turns back to the mess. The page sticks in her mind. It still hovers in the back of her thoughts as she tucks in the chair and gathers the plates, depositing them in the recycler. They dematerialize with a satisfying  _ chhhh _ . Michael watches as her body meticulously pulls apart and refolds the blankets, the soft textures of wool and cotton falling across her forearms and hands. Each blanket shakes out, creases down the middle, down the sides, drapes over her arms. A grey knitted blanket refuses to fold. She tosses it over the arm of the chair, stacking the remaining blankets on the right corner of the couch. 

Content, Michael orders a protein bar from the replicator and takes small bites of it while wandering around the room, surveying any issues she hasn't cleaned up. The room seems to be in order, aside from the occasional knocked-over holo or a fork that made its way to an unexplored nook. Michael smiles to herself. Completely satisfied with her cleaning job, she drops the few pieces of debris she found in the recycler and returns to Philippa's bedroom.

Philippa is, thankfully, still asleep, though her face is contorted into a frown and her sleep seems fitful. Michael sits on the corner of the bed. The mattress gives a little to her weight, barely noticeable under the blankets coating the seat. Michael rests a hand on Philippa's forehead to test her temperature, a small movement buried in her from the years of Amanda doing the same to her. Philippa feels warm, although not uncomfortably so. Her fingers squeeze Philippa's bicep. The motion is also ingrained in her memory, a reaffirming action Philippa uses on every member of her crew.

"Sleep well, Philippa," Michael murmurs, an echo from her first week on the Shenzhou. She settles back into her spot. Philippa may have moved a little to accommodate Michael's return, although the movement is so slight she could have imagined it. Her arm fits back into its resting place. "And I'll keep you safe."

The words turn a core of Michael's being to honey, something sweet and viscous settling across her chest. The sensation is foreign. Michael wonders dimly what must have caused the feeling, perhaps the sight of her solid Captain brittle and crumbling, but the comfortable way she cuddles with Philippa lures her down into a peaceful sleep.

 

 

 

Michael wakes up in a fog a few hours later. Her mind is clogged with sleep, which clears with a couple seconds of waking. Philippa is still curled up in her arms. 

"Philippa?" Michael murmurs, before her memory boots up. This Philippa is staring vacantly at Michael's shoulder. Her cheeks are sticky with tears, the blankets near her eyes are soaked, and her hand is gripping the outer shell of the cocoon so tightly her knuckles are white. Michael shifts, her arm tingling. Philippa's eyes still don't move. Michael waits, counting one minute, three minutes, five, until Philippa's eyes close and meld with the dark circles under.

To Michael, it appears like a trance, an unorganized, spiralling meditation, similar to what happened to her while she was hidden in a cupboard while her parents were killed. That lasted for only a few hours.     

Philippa's face twitches, pulling Michael out of her mind. Philippa looks disconnected, and Michael still can't banish the doodle from her thoughts, so her decision to ramble out loud seems logical.   
"I found the sketch in your book, Philippa. What a book. Advised reading in second year. The stories--" Michael pauses in recollection. "-- they vary in quality. I never knew you shaved your hair at the Academy. It looked nice... was it result of the wild child, Philippa Khan? I suppose it makes you fierce." Michael takes a deep breath and notes the tight expression on Philippa's face has loosened a little.  "I hope you can't hear me. This is silly. But that drawing? Who made it for you? Who drew those soft lines and shiny curls? Who took your book from you and put you down with a few sharp pencil strokes? I...It's intriguing, that's all." Michael fidgets with her hands in her lap. "Sorry for talking to you like you're a rock. I'll get back to comforting."  
Michael does that, her mind eased with the mystery of the Philippa, but it still races and bounds from side to side. She catalogues her questions as they hit her brain.  
  
_Why is Philippa acting like this?_ _  
_ _  
__Why didn't she tell me?_ _  
_ _  
__Is she sick?_ _  
_ _  
__Can I break her out of her trance?_ _  
_ _  
__Has she had any of the hydration packets?_ _  
__  
__Why didn't she tell me?_ _  
_ _  
__When did she make that recording?_ _  
_ _  
__Did she know I'd keep her safe?_ _  
_ _  
__How did she know I'd find her?_ _  
_ _  
__Are there any photos of her with that cadet haircut?_ _  
_ _  
__Why didn't she tell me?_ _  
_ _  
__Does she still feel so guilty?_ _  
_ _  
__Why didn't she tell me?_ _  
_ _  
__Why didn't she tell me?_ _  
_ _  
_ Her mind catches on that question and it plays back and back again. She can't fathom why Philippa wouldn't have told her something so important.  
 _  
__What would she have done, if I hadn't been here?_ _  
_  
That question clogs the gears of her mind with a screeching spiral of awful.   
  
_She could have hurt herself._ _  
_ _  
__She could have broken something she loved._ _  
_ _  
__She could have fallen asleep on the floor._ _  
_ _  
__She could-_ _  
_ _  
__She could-_ _  
_ _  
__She---_ _  
_  
Michael stops that train of thought with denial. She is here. Philippa is not physically injured. Michael will stay here. Philippa will be __safe. Michael closes her eyes, hoping for sleep that won't come to her muddled mind.

 

 

 

Michael wakes up, bleary. She smells tea. Her eyes blink open and closed again, one, two times. Philippa's absence is clear now. Panic impulses rise immediately.

"Philippa?" Michael calls, sitting upright with a jolt. She bounds out of the room in one leap. She nearly collides with Philippa, who's back in her uniform and carrying two mugs of tea, one of which spills a little on Michael's shirt.

"Thank you, Michael." Philippa smiles a little, and hands Michael her tea. "I'm okay now."

"Oh. I--should...can I help with anything?" Michael stammers. Philippa leans forwards, her hand on Michael's shoulder, and kisses her forehead. The action is quick, but Michael's face darkens and Philippa's eyes crinkle with a grin.

"You did enough, and I think I owe you an explanation." Philippa's words are silky-soft in her ears, and Michael swears she can still feel Philippa's lips on her forehead. "You didn't have to clean up after me."

"I...yeah, I--I couldn't leave your room like that," Michael manages.

"It's all right, Michael. Sit?" Philippa gestures at a chair. Michael spins it around and sits down, as if the chair were made of cracking glass. "I have to thank you again, Michael. I shouldn't have asked such a favour from you." Philippa takes the chair across from Michael while she drinks a healthy gulp of tea. 

"No, no, you would have done the same for me," Michael protests. "It's just a returned favour."

"Still, Michael, you did a lot for me." Philippa grabs Michael's hand and squeezes it tight.

"Philippa, you should talk to Doctor Nambue. He could get a brain scan, figure out what we need to neutralize this...this attack," Michael rambles. 

"No, I--I don't deserve that." Michael's brow furrows.

"Of course you do, Philippa," Michael counters. "You should talk to Nambue." Philippa looks downwards, fiddling with the zipper on the pocket of her pants. Michael places her hand on top of their intertwined fingers, holding Philippa's hand between hers.

"It's my fault he's  _ dead _ , shouldn't I feel any guilt? I do deserve this." Michael leans in a fraction, swiping at Philippa's tears.

"No, Philippa! This isn't you." Michael captures her in a hug again, letting Philippa's tears stain her uniform. She shudders in Michael's arms. "And...he would have forgiven you, Philippa. Years ago. You don't have to put yourself through this." 

Philippa wrestles with the concept for a moment, before discarding it. "No, I should, I should. Michael..." Michael can see her eyes blanking.

"Philippa, _ it isn't your fault _ . It  _ isn't _ ," Michael stamps. 

"I---" Philippa chokes. Michael presses a kiss to her forehead, an impulse too fast for her to stop. "---it's....-Michael...." 

"It's okay, Philippa. You don't have to say anything."

"Oh..." Philippa breathes, and leans again on Michael.

"Just stay here, for now."

 


	9. Chapter Nine, in which Michael Burnham has much to think about

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you ready for some MORE hurt/comfort and my refusal to learn that no, concussions don't make you spill out your deep secrets? probably not but you're here anyway!! :)

The communicator fizzles. Philippa taps it against the cliff face and tries again.  

“Dammit. Michael, any luck?” Michael looks up from the disassembled device.

“No, Captain. We'll have to find shelter soon before it gets too dark.” Michael scans the levels of cliffs, sighing.

“Hey, Michael.” Philippa puts a gloved hand on Michael's cheek. “We’ll be okay.” Philippa smiles. Michael feels a pang in her core. “Now, come on, gather your things,” Philippa urges. Michael picks up her backpack, stashing the communicator in another pocket, before stumbling to her feet and following Philippa's footsteps.

The cliffs provide almost no shelter, being placed on a sloping angle. The walkways are thin and snow coats everything. Michael's feet start to hurt.  Her fingers are numb, and she begins to rub them together when Philippa stops. Michael bumps into her. Philippa points up.

“Michael, look!” she exclaims, pointing at a hole in the cliff face several layers up. Michael squints to see it.

“Captain, I don't think we can get up there.” Michael looks at the speck again, blinking snow out of her eyelashes.

“It's entirely possible, Michael, I just realized. These cliffs have traces of iron in them. We can use the magnet locks on our boots.” Philippa grins.

“Oh…” Michael murmurs, sheepish. Philippa pats her shoulder.

“You don't have to think of everything, Michael,” she assures. Michael's cheeks redden as she reaches down to turn on the locks of her boots. They click on with a satisfying noise. Philippa hops onto the cliff face, balancing herself by leaning forwards. Michael follows. Their shoes clunk their way to the top of that layer, then the next, the next, and finally to the right one.

“That was a quick solution, Philippa,” Michael notes, as they make their way into the cave. She turns on her flashlight.  

“You've got a few years to catch up.” Philippa scans the empty cave and dumps her pack in a corner, swiping the snow off a ledge and sitting down. “But you shouldn't get this old. Everything hurts,” Philippa complains, massaging her temples. Michael clicks her flashlight into a lantern and sits next to her.

“You are not _old._ Headache?” Philippa nods. “Lean forwards.” Philippa looks at her with a quizzical expression but does it anyway. Michael pulls off her glove and shifts Philippa's scarf a little higher on her neck. She presses down at the base of Philippa's skull for a few seconds, before removing her hand and readjusting the scarf.

“You are a witch, Michael. Thank you.” Philippa shakes her head. “My Gods, that fixed it. Help me get the sleeping bags out, will you?” Michael unclips her bag and mat from her pack.

“The temperature might require us to be close together for efficiency. Would you be comfortable if I connected the bags?” Michael can feel nerves approaching on her, though the reason is unclear.

“I'm all right with that. Are you?” Philippa shakes out her sleeping blanket. Michael nods. “I have a tendency to cling to people in my sleep.”

“That's fine,” Michael responds, her anxiety refusing to dissipate. She clicks the mats on to inflate. “I don't mind.” Philippa smiles.

“Something makes me think you're not really comfortable with that, Michael, and that's all right.” Philippa hands her the other sleeping bag.

“No! No, it's fine, I promise.” Michael's fingers tremble as they unzip the bag. Philippa pats her bicep.

“You can tell me, Michael, if you don't like it,” Philippa reminds her. Michael smiles and replaces her glove.

“I'll be all right. Do you have the heater?” Michael diverts the conversation, her stomach filled with a strange feeling. Philippa hands her the device. It clicks on.

“Do you have an estimate on the storm?” Philippa asks, crouching to flatten out the sleeping bag.

“Approximately one hour twenty-seven minutes until it fully arrives. Thirty-seven hours, fifteen minutes until it passes enough for the Shenzhou to pick us up.”

“There's my Michael,” Philippa grins. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” Michael admits. “I'm just gonna go sit outside for a moment.” Philippa looks at her with a strange expression as she ducks out of the cave.

“Michael-oh, well.” Philippa sighs.

Michael sits herself on the edge of the ridge, crossing her legs into her meditative state. She lets her mind blank. From her state, she flips through her emotions, trying to label them.

  
  
_Affection._

  
  
_Confusion._

  
  
_Anxiety._

  
  
_Is that anticipation?_

 __  
  
Michael pauses for a moment, aware her face must be screwed up in focus. She tries to relax.

  
_  
_ _No._

 __  
  
Courage?

 __  
  
No.

 __  
  
A--

  
  
Michael can't figure the feeling that fills her stomach with a sick, bubbling feel, that makes her fingers tremble. She had pinned it on anxiety.

  
  
_But that wasn't_ right _._

  
  
Michael crumples her hands together. Fragments pop from her memory. A smile from Philippa, the girl with braids in her first grade class, Philippa's outstretched hand. More pieces surface, too fast, blurring her mind. She waits for the resurfacing to pass, for her mind to clear, so she can re-sort this information.

  
Oh.

 

Michael almost laughs at the realization, something so obvious, something she had never considered.

 

_I am in love with my captain._

 

_I am in love with Philippa Georgiou._

 

Her mind is disturbingly calm, as if the last few pieces of a creaky machine were finally oiled. She blinks to clear the snow from her eyes.

"Michael, are you all right?" Philippa's question comes, unexpected, from behind Michael's ear. She jolts, slips, too quick for her to grab the ledge again, and cracks her head hard on the next ridge.

 

Her mind truly blanks.

 

Philippa instinctively reaches out for Michael, but she is far too slow. Her thoughts crank up.

"Michael!" she calls, turning on the locks of her boots and beginning her descent. "Michael, if you can hear me, I'm coming!" Philippa yells, with a desperate hope that Michael isn't unconscious. She hears no reply.

Her feet thump down the levels, searching for the glisten of Michael's gold coat. It is snowing, heavily, and Philippa fights to stay standing, the incline fighting against her. She pulls her goggles on. Wind bites at her face, pins at her fingers, her toes having gone numb a long time ago.

"Michael!" she cries, again. The wind drowns her voice. She counts her fourth ridge. No Michael, although the path of her tumble is quite visible. Philippa is running now. There is nothing but white around her, for too long, until the corner of Michael's hood pops into view. Philippa sprints to it.

Michael is lying, curled up tightly, with her coat thoroughly ripped. A nasty scrape extends down her forehead. She seems only semi-conscious. Philippa scoops her up, delicate.

"Oh, Michael!" she murmurs. Michael shoves her head against Philippa's neck.

"There-there was a thing..." Michael rambles, incoherent. "A thing...was gonna tell you...what was i’?" she manages.

"Shh, Michael. Save your energy, but stay awake," Philippa soothes, beginning her ascent. Michael smiles.

"I-remember. Can I...tell you?" Michael slurs, grabbing tightly to Philippa.

"Okay, Michael."

"I love you," she mumbles. Philippa freezes for a moment.

"Oh." Philippa pauses. "Is that what you were thinking about when I interrupted you?"

"Mm. 's funny 'cause I don't like girls ever. 'cept _you_." Michael whispers, poking Philippa in the chest. Philippa strains to hear her.

"Well, that's all right," Philippa reassures.

"Do you...love m' too?" Philippa stops to weigh her response.

"Yes. I love you too."

"Good, 'cause I really love you," Michael mutters. "A lot. You have--y’ have pretty hair..."

"Thank you, Michael. Just hold on for a moment--" Philippa steps into the cave. "Why don't you go lie down?" She sets Michael on the sleeping bags.

"Okay. Can I call you my wife if you love me?" Michael mumbles, curling up.

"Will it make you go to sleep?" Philippa responds, crouching next to her with a medkit.

"I want a kiss," Michael pouts. Philippa scans her head, then digs through the kit for a hypo.

"I'll give you a little kiss if you let me give you medicine, Michael."

"oh-kay." Philippa lifts the hypo to her neck. It hisses as the medicine releases. Michael snorts.

“There we go. You can sleep now, Michael.” Michael shivers.

“I'm cold. And I want my kiss,” she protests.

“Take off your coat and boots. Then you can sleep in the thermal bags,” Philippa orders. “You'll get your kiss when you do that.”

Michael sticks her tongue out but obliges. She drops her shredded coat in Philippa's arms.

"Help me!" Michael mumbles, tugging at the zipper in the bag. Philippa leans over and tugs it free, pulling back the top sheet.   
"In you get, Michael," Philippa says, gesturing at the bed. Michael crawls in, curling up as Philippa zips the bag halfway and tucks her in. Her hand lingers on Michael's shoulder as she leans down to kiss her forehead.   
"I want a better kiss, Pippa," Michael murmurs. Philippa squeezes her bicep.   
"You'll get a better one when I can be perfectly sure this isn't because of a concussion. Sleep well."  
"Mph. 'Night."  
Philippa waits for Michael to be completely asleep before she pulls the covers back again and scans her other injuries. Most seem to be rather minor for falling down a cliff, though her wrist is broken and her external head wound hasn't been tended to yet. Philippa supports her wrist with an adjusting circular brace, clicking it into place. She runs the regenerator over it one more time for good measure.   
Philippa undoes the closures on Michael's inner jacket, awkwardly sliding it off her sleeping form. Her arms are rather bruised, but the coat has taken the brunt of the damage.

Still…

It hurts, to see the woman she loves, and who _maybe, maybe,_ through a celestial fluke, a cosmic impossibility, _loves her back,_ to see her so terribly scraped and bruised, so fragile.

Philippa gives herself a single moment of believing that Michael truly does love her before ripping the backing off several sheet bandages. The small ones sit across Michael's arms, and a larger one takes its spot on the bottom corner of her abdomen. She slides the jacket back on, fighting to get it back to its original state. Michael doesn't stir.   
Philippa moves to her head, wiping away the blood with a sterilized cloth before running the regenerator over the scrape a few times. The skin heals, mostly, and Philippa fastens another bandage to her forehead. She brushes her hands and packs up her medkit, tosses it back in her pack, shucks her coat and boots, and curls up in the sleeping bag right next to Michael.

"Good night, Michael," she murmurs, before succumbing to sleep herself.   
  
Michael wakes, slow, feeling a weight over her head. She blinks to clear her eyes.   
"Morning, Michael. Are you doing all right?" Philippa's tender voice comes from over her shoulder. Michael turns. Philippa is curled up with her, an arm gently draped over Michael's side.   
"Yeah...I'm fine. My head hurts, a little." Michael yawns, then halts mid-stretch. "Did I tell you I loved you?" Michael's voice is a little scared.   
"You did, Michael. It's all right," Philippa soothes. "Was it just the concussion talking?"  
"No! No, I just...I've never actually been in love with someone...like you, or, or this _much_ before, it’s new, and...oh, I have a lot to think about," Michael explains, trying to give Philippa space.

“You're… you're romantically attracted to me, Michael?” Philippa is aware of the disbelief in her voice, and she lets her heart revel in the joy of this galactic chance.

“I...yes, Captain, I'm sorry, I will be requesting a transfer once we have returned to the Shenzhou.” Michael's heart drops into the pit of her stomach. She _has_ to leave, that is logic, but Philippa's staring at her downcast expression with a quizzical look and wide eyes, and her throat feels sour as she fights tears. Philippa laughs. She rubs Michael's bicep with a strong hand.

“No, no, no, oh, Michael, you are such a delightful _fool_ sometimes, _bibi_ ,” Philippa murmurs, and Michael perks up just a little.

“What...Captain, what do you mean?”

"May I kiss you?" Philippa asks, softly.   
"Oh. Wha--uh, yes. Please?"   
Philippa pulls herself into a sitting position, to match Michael's. Her hand rests on Michael's cheek for a moment before leaning over, pressing her lips against Michael's, sweet and perfect, stroking her chin. Michael attempts to kiss her back just as well, but she is out of practice, and Philippa is so _perfect_.

Michael gapes.   
"My Gods, Philippa, I love you so much," Michael murmurs. Philippa presses their foreheads together, careful to avoid Michael's wound.   
"I love you too, Michael." Philippa's eyes are spilling over with tears. Michael leans over to swipe them away.   
"Can we...can we curl up a little more? Please?" Michael is suddenly aware of her trembling, the jacket not strong enough to repel the wind seeping into their shelter.

"Of course, Michael. Come here." Philippa settles back into the blanket, wrapping herself around Michael, cradling her head in her hands.   
"This is really nice, Philippa. I love you." Michael rests her head on Philippa's collarbone.   
"Lovely. We can do this a lot, if you'd like."  
"Please. I would _love_ that."  
Michael curls up in Philippa's arms, feeling so sweet, protected, _adored_ , the warmth of her captain, her love, her Philippa, close enough to hear her beating heart and her even breathing, and she is fully, wholly happy for the first time in a very long while.


	10. Chapter Ten, in which Michael Burnham blames herself for Philippa Georgiou's mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter! don't let the title fool you this is pure fluff

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Philippa smiles at Michael, who wanders into the sparring chamber.

"Hey, Michael. You're ready for today?" Philippa slips on her shock-absorbent gloves, wiggling her fingers through the sleeves.

"All ready. Let me go get changed, and then we can start." Michael slings her bag over her shoulder and slips into a changeroom.

Philippa stretches against the side of the ring, her upper back flaring with pain, again. She grumbles. 

"Course, it's now," she huffs. Philippa continues her practise, still muttering about her back until Michael pops back out into open space, her Fleet-issue tank top and exercise pants that hit just below her knee show well-developed muscles normally, and mostly, hidden by her uniform. Philippa takes the moment to admire her.

"Should I avoid back hits again, Philippa?" Michael asks, setting her bag down carefully on a metal bench.

"Yes. Sorry, Michael." 

Michael shrugs. "Don't be sorry about something you have no control over, Philippa." She adjusts her feet on the mats, to match Philippa's wide stance.

"Sorry. Damn!" Philippa exclaims, to a chuckle from Michael. 

"Usual setup?"

"Usual setup." Philippa positions herself in a defensive position across from Michael, fists clenched. Michael's own stance is similar.

Philippa nods and lets Michael take a first lunge, which she sidesteps. Michael recovers and slides a foot out to catch Philippa's calf. Philippa slides out of the way and launches a punch at Michael's face. Michael ducks and lands a solid kick to Philippa's ribs. Philippa recoils but recovers quick, sending a knee up to reach Michael's stomach. Michael grabs her leg and shoves her back, firmly, and elbows Philippa in the thigh, ducking low to catch her off-guard. A firm but not too powerful punch knocks Michael squarely in the shoulder. She falls sideways but turns the momentum into an impressive roll off her other shoulder, and hops to her feet again.

Philippa lets Michael launch off a series of punches before she ducks and elbows her in the solar plexus. Michael wheezes, and leaps to the side to add some distance. Philippa snags her leg with her foot and sends her tumbling to the ground.

"Good job, Michael!" Philippa congratulates, holding a hand down to help her up. She takes it and pulls herself to her feet.

"Thank you. Again?" Michael is already setting herself up in the proper position before Philippa can even answer.

"Of course." She nods at Michael, who nods back. Philippa throws the first punch. Michael catches it, easily, and sends a kick to Philippa's stomach. Philippa twists to avoid it, and pulls Michael into a tight grip from behind. Michael struggles for a moment before jumping off the ground and slamming her weight backwards into Philippa. Philippa stumbles and falls. Michael rolls off to avoid fully landing on Philippa, and pins her down. Philippa can feel Michael's hands on her wrists.

"One to one?" Michael offers, peering over Philippa. Philippa grumbles something incoherent. "What was that?"

Philippa's knees shoot up and slam into the soft skin of Michael's stomach, and, with a shove off her back with her shoulder blades, she almost switches places with Michael, though her grip is more solid.

"Two to nothing, Michael. Remember to tighten your grip." Philippa releases her, helping her to her feet. Michael nods her thanks. "One more time, then I'll teach you more moves."

Their positions reset. Philippa nods, Michael nods, and Philippa's mind just notices how beautiful Michael's hair is, puffy, a halo around her head, unmoving even in her attack, complimenting the strong muscles across her arms--

Sparks erupt in Philippa's nose. She winces.

"Oh, no, Captain! I'm so sorry, are you all right?" Michael's face has taken on her worry, and she holds Philippa's hand tight in her own.

"Ow. I'm fine, and I should have been paying attention. Grab the medkit, please?" Michael bounds to the kit, grabs it, and rushes back, cracking open the scanner on the way. It beeps. Philippa cringes.

"Your nose is broken, Philippa, I'm sorry," Michael apologizes, rifling through the kit with shaky hands.

"Don't worry. This isn't my first broken nose, Michael." Philippa chuckles, then stops abruptly when it hurts.

"I know, but I should have known you wouldn't block it, I'm sorry," Michael mumbles, running the regenerator over her nose. "Stay still, Philippa."

"I am staying still, and don't be silly. There's no way you would have known."

"I know. But I still feel...really bad." Michael resets some buttons and Philippa feels the slightly uncomfortable sensation of her bones being knit back together.

"Oh,  _ bibi _ , don't worry. Remember when I gave you that nasty bruise when I accidentally kicked you in the face? This is just payback." Philippa scrunches her nose as Michael replaces the tools. "And I'm all better now."

"I'm sorry, though."

"Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault." Philippa plucks her gloves off her fingers and collapses backwards onto the mat. Michael does the same, albeit with more dignity.

"This is fun. We should do it more often."

"We should, Michael." Philippa's head turns to look at Michael, and plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek. “Except next time I won't get distracted by your hair. And muscles.”

“You are  _ useless,  _ Philippa.”


	11. Chapter Eleven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just heads-up, this chapter is eeeeeeh. dark. the angst has begun. michael is Not Okay.  
> this is the chapter that warrants the self-harm tag. I'm not sure what other content/trigger warnings to put here, please let me know.

Michael’s fingers close around her phaser, the hall they stand in rough and hostile, too warm, scattered with ceremonial fires. She glances at Philippa, who glances back, and they hold a look for a moment before continuing their search. Adrenaline spikes and adds an unwanted tremble to her fingers.

Before she can stop them, two hulking Klingons barrel into her and Philippa. She kicks and scratches and everything bends into a horrible, terrible blur, guilt shading her every move, and she feels her finger dig into the soft flesh of the white Klingon she’s fighting, everything flashing and speeding and snapshots into her mind and her soul and she’s howling and--

She sees the knife about to plunge into Philippa’s chest.

She holds the phaser.

Her heart beats, and she fires, but she’s too slow, and things go too fast again, and she’s hurling her very soul at Saru, shrieking for just a moment to  _ wait, wait!!!.  _

Her hands slip off the toe of Philippa’s boot. 

She returns to the Shenzhou and her heart is lost in transit.

 

\--

  
  


Michael stares at her fork. It sits in her hand with a weight she can't place, something too heavy for its size. She passes it between her hands and returns to her thinking, her mindless thought-space she built, the place she lives to hold out the rending of her soul, her heart. 

Words aren't said, here, no atmosphere to carry them, only Michael looking on at a Philippa she sculpts meticulously, at the blank empty of a white bubble she can manipulate. She is herself again here. Almost. There is no living Philippa, no brilliant smile and gorgeous eyes and hair and everything, no warm curls or firm grip around her midsection, no sweet love like honey in her heart, no chest to rest her head on, no Philippa, no Philippa, none of her. 

Michael can't remember why she's in prison in the first place. She knows Amanda's letters are still unopened. She knows they have answers. 

She also can't remember the last time she ate. A frequent occurrence. 

Her ribs are easily visible. She recognizes that she should eat more food. She forgets to. 

Human bodies are just shells, husks to carry minds around. They have no use when there is no Philippa to adore. No use, without a person you love. 

Michael counts the tines of the fork, pressing the pad of her finger against the dull edge. There are four. Three, six. Her mind has lost more than its edge. It has fragmented. 

She needs her Philippa. 

She will be okay just if she can bring her back. 

Knives settle at the base of her ribcage. The pain is first. Her throat constricts next, her hands tremble, her stomach rolls with acid. 

Everything hurts. 

Michael refuses to move, refuses to curl up, refuses to cry. 

Philippa's death wasn't her fault. 

Was it?

Michael only remembers the transporter and materializing without Philippa, feeling the empty of a world with no Philippa soak into her veins, feeling her soul tear apart. 

Wasn't her fault. 

Her ribs feel like they've been replaced with lava. Michael refuses to move. She watches the ceiling catch the faint light of the forcefield and move ever so slightly. The fork is still pressed against her fingers. 

The pattern on the ceiling fades. Footsteps lead in the room, a guard, the doctor, the steps familiar. She slips the fork under her pillow.

“Hello, Michael. I heard you haven't been eating.” Michael knows the words well. She's heard them too many times. “Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head with the smallest motion she can. 

“No? When did you eat last?” Michael shrugs at the question. There is no reason to waste words, no reason to speak out loud. She hasn’t in what she estimates to be three or five months. 

“Check the replicator logs in here. Michael, have you left bed recently? The past few days?” She thinks for a moment and jerks her head left then right. 

“Michael, why don't you eat? Do you forget?” Michael nods, as that seems correct, if she doesn't look too hard. 

“No food since four days ago. She ordered water yesterday,” the guard says, staring at the replicator history. 

“Four days? Michael, even if you're not hungry, we're gonna get you food.” She shakes her head, he can’t call her Michael, no, no, Michael is only Philippa’s word, only Philippa carries the word  _ right _ . “Michael--” She kicks him, her bare foot emerging from the blankets and smashing hard against his thigh. He recoils. The action is not conscious but it feels satisfying, for her to stop the sound of her name from him. He backs up a step. The guard moves closer.

“ _ Michael _ , as--” Michael can’t stop the silent scream from her mouth, her lunge at him, the way her elbow connects to his sternum, her careful, hoarse whisper of words.

“ _ Only Philippa gets to call me Michael! _ ” Her yell comes out as an intimidating croak. Strong hands wrap against her ribs, toss her back onto her bed like a doll. She cracks her head against the window.

“Mi- _ prisoner Burnham _ , why?” The doctor has recovered. Michael shuts up and crawls back under her blanket, hiding her head deep in the ball she forms. 

“You should leave, Doctor,” the guard advises. “She won't say anything more.”

“Get her food. And we need to get her to someone--even if she won't talk…” His voice fades out and the flicker of the forcefield is back in place. Her cell is mercifully empty. She takes the fork out from under her pillow, plays with it. 

Did she kill Philippa?

Was it her fault? 

She is suddenly so hungry, so hungry she rolls out of bed and orders the first thing in the replicator menu, eats without tasting. She recycles the bowl with no memory of the food she consumed. Her body collapses back into bed.

Did she kill Philippa?

It returns through the barriers in her mind. She remembers Philippa's eyes when the weapon pierced through her skin. 

She remembers it was her fault. 

Michael feels the fork push deep into her thigh. She shoves it from side to side, deepening the wound. Her thigh feels the pain that doesn't translate to her mind. Warm trickles down her leg. It soaks her sheets. 

_ It's your fault.  _

_ Shit.  _

_ It's my fault.  _

Blood is collecting in a pool on the inside of her foot, an irregular shape. She tears the fork out towards her, leaving jagged scrapes up her leg. The puddle grows. She shoves her hand against the wound, hard, waiting for hurt to come. 

It doesn't. 

She rolls onto the floor, allowing the trickle of blood continue, her eyes glassy and tear-filled, her face slack. A guard will find her eventually and she wonders what they will see, what contorted Burnham in its blood-stained underclothes, the face tacky with dried tears. The way its hand holds a reddened, dripping fork. She amuses herself with such moments constantly, the details in proper order, her mind functioning correctly for only gruesome ideas. 

And she feels her eyes slipping closed. She is so  _ tired _ . 

She sleeps to forget. 


	12. Chapter Twelve, in which Philippa Georgiou longs for home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads-up for torture scenes in this chapter, no one dies, but just skip this chapter if that's not what you want to read.

Philippa wakes with a jolt. Her chest feels as though boiling water has been poured into her bones, and she gasps. Her vision is as fuzzy as her limbs, heavy with anesthetic. She can sense eyes watching her, and a yell in a foreign, harsh tongue hits her ears. A dim sense of a needle pricking her shoulder reaches her brain. Her mind fades into static.

 

Philippa comes to, slow, in a haze of sedative and something more awful hovering over her skin. Her torso is numb. She tries to blink the sleep out of her eyes, everything blurred. Despite that, she can clearly see the room is reddish in colour, dimly lit, and too warm. She coughs the dust out of her lungs. Her ribs rip with pain, tears spring to her eyes, her hands tremble as several pairs of teeth shred her heart and lungs. The noise draws the attention of a shadowy figure in the corner. Ominous footsteps lead to Philippa’s bedside. An altogether too recognizable face peers over her, teeth bared.

“Philippa Georgiou,” L’rell says, with a horrific sing-song quality.

“I-am Georgiou,” Philippa grates, a taste of blood still lingering at the back of her throat. L’rell reaches out to stroke Philippa’s matted hair. “What--” Philippa heaves. “--what do you want with--with me?” she manages, jaw clenched.

“I’m going to find your Michael Burnham, and I’m going to bring her here, and I’m going to kill her and make you watch, and then I’ll kill you,” she croons, sweeping stray hair off Philippa’s forehead. “But...I want a  _ guinea pig _ . A disposable toy. Something to...hm, something to practise any new... _ innovations  _ on.” L’rell’s voice is the same tone Philippa uses for small children. It chills Philippa to her core. 

“I won’t let you,” Philippa rasps, a tiny amount of bravado raising in her. L’rell yanks up her ponytail, pulling at the roots, and grabs a primitive medical tool with a sharp blade. Philippa’s heart stops. L’rell’s face drops down to a few centimetres above her head.

“You will.” Spit lands on Philippa’s face. The blade swings and slices off most of Philippa’s hair in one swoop, a horrible sound in her ears. Philippa flinches.

“No.” 

L’rell’s punch is swift. Heavy, rattling pain bubbles in her torso, panic pounding in her ears, the terrible feel of broken ribs swathing her chest. She whimpers.

“Now, you will. I will,” she snarls, whipping Philippa’s detached ponytail at her face strong enough to whistle through the air. It lands like needles on her cheeks.

“No!” Philippa screams. L’rell’s fingers close around her throat. Black edges set around Philippa’s vision. Her lungs burn more than they previously did, her throat protesting as nails drive into her skin.

“You will!” L’rell yanks Philippa out of the bed and jams her against the wall. She gurgles, choking. Another punch lands at her stomach. The texture of the wall digs into her back as she hisses. The support around her neck drops. She crumples back in the hard surface of the bed, coughing. 

“No…” Philippa whispers, voice hoarse, and indistinguishable from another gasp for air. L’rell runs her fingers through Philippa’s short, rough hair, pulling her head up to face her.

“Yes.” 

L’rell reaches for a jagged scalpel. 

Philippa screams when it meets her skin, when it drags into her eye and her vision blacks. Molten metal pours over half of Philippa's face. She cries and shrieks and cowers. 

Heavy dread spikes through her core and her skull rings. 

“I will not be so merciful again. Do not be so... _ human _ . It will cost you.” L’rell releases Philippa back to her coiled position. “You have two days in the medbay. Enjoy them.”

Pounding footsteps stride out of the room, leaving Philippa in her agonizing ball, sobbing into her shredded uniform, hands desperately clutching at her badge, longing for the familiarity and the comfort of a home she might never see again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Philippa stumbles out of her nest of ripped sacks, pulling her shredded uniform back on, piece by piece. Blood stains every object. Her fingers are clumsy, and her right hand doesn’t work anymore. The bones have been shattered too many times. It hurts to exist, now, her breathing rattles her chest like her lungs are full of pins, her legs can barely support her weight, and contact to any part of her is going to elicit a reaction, her skin so bruised. Her hair grows back, L’rell cuts it, burns it, yanks it out of her skull. 

Philippa keeps herself sane by the insignia that presses against her collarbone as she sleeps, tucked away in a crumbling corner of her cell otherwise. 

Loud footsteps echo in the hall. She pushes the singed ends of her hair out of her face.

“Out!” shouts a guard, grabbing her arm harshly in the same spot where his grip has made a strange bruise. She lets him take her back to L’rell’s chamber. The walls are familiar, the floor is familiar, the patterns burned into her one functioning retina, and she chokes on her own tears as she is shoved into a room where she will inevitably spend the rest of the day until she’s recovered enough to stumble her way back to her room and pray for a few hours of sleep before she’s woken again for a similarly humiliating task.

L’rell takes her arm in a careful way, depositing her on a chair. The chair is new. Blood does not cover every inch of it like nearly everything else in this room.

“You are in pain, are you not?” L’rell taunts, in near-perfect but off-putting Standard. Philippa nods with the enthusiasm of an ant getting crushed by an overeager two-year-old. “Hm. Good. Hold out your arm. This will be interesting.”

 

Philippa’s heart pumps a bitter poison that spreads through her limbs, a throbbing, acidic pain in her veins, burning holes in her skin. She sobs. L’rell’s new ‘blood-acid’ seems to work, and it hasn’t worn off in hours, leaving Philippa to crawl her way back to her cell. The structure spins. Philippa wishes she could just pass out, but L’rell is not merciful enough to grant her that luxury. There must have been a stimulant in the cocktail that L’rell had injected into her blood.

Her Fleet tank top didn’t quite survive her stabbing, but when turned backwards, it’s more intact than the rest of her clothes, and is the cleanest thing she owns, reserved for sleeping. She runs her fingers over the fabric and puts it on. The acid in her blood rises to her stomach, and she retches, leaning for the crude toilet in her room.

Her throat burns as she coughs the poison out of her system. Philippa’s head hurts, surely dehydration, but her blood does not burn at her anymore.

 

_ Better...better tell L’rell that… _

 

The thought itself is not funny, yet Philippa laughs anyway, her mind spinning, and she collapses back onto the makeshift bed she created for herself, praying for the relief of sleep.

 


	13. Chapter Thirteen, in which the Emperor reexamines her opinion of the Federation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is indeed mirror georgiou/prime michael, and it is clear that mirror philippa was not in love with mirror michael, but if you still wanna skip this chapter, that's fine.

Michael wakes up to the Emperor’s face peering over her. She jolts up. 

“Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you. Orion forcefield. Give you a nasty shock if you touch it.” Georgiou taps her wrist and lets Michael take in her surroundings. An empty cell, walls spattered with crusted blood, concrete bricks everywhere, and the only decoration is the cold metal chair Michael's sitting in. The light is dim, and the faint green of the forcefield is clear, shining off a metal hoop at her feet. The circle surrounds her on all sides. 

“What did you do, Philippa?” Michael feels foggy, muddled, her clothes are stained and dirty, the armour scratched. 

“Nothing. I saved you from that awful thing you call a Federation. Now you're going to be here with me.” Georgiou’s hand reaches out and holds on to her chin. “It's not so bad here. We can run away. I can take that one you like with us, too, the…the Killy one. Haven't you wanted to explore the galaxy?” 

Michael snaps her head around and bites down on the soft cushion on the side of her hand. Georgiou yelps and slaps her, the rings on her hand tearing at Michael's flesh. 

“Oh, how funny. You miss your Philippa, I know you do. And I'm right here! I'll be gentle, I promise.” Michael says nothing, only glares at her, blood dripping out of her cheek. Georgiou rolls her eyes and wipes Michael's blood away with a careful thumb. 

“You aren't my Philippa,” Michael mumbles. 

“Aren't I? Come on, Michael, I'll help you,” Georgiou promises, wiping a hand unceremoniously on her sleeve, the blood shining on the black leather. Michael shudders. 

“You won't. You just manipulate people until you think you can forget about them.” Georgiou cups Michael's cheeks in her hands. Michael shakes her head away. 

“Come on, Michael! I miss my Michael, you miss your Philippa; there's a clear solution here.” Georgiou pulls a knife out of her pocket and cleans it on her shirt. Michael tenses. Philippa sighs and looks at her. “I wouldn't use it on _ you _ !? By the Gods.” She shakes her head. 

“Philippa, please let me go. I'm sorry you're not my Philippa, but that won't change. I'll just beam back up and pretend this never happened.”

“I'm not going to  _ let you go!”  _ Georgiou sneers. “You're free! You can stay here, with me, and we can go retire to a corner of the galaxy where we'll never be bothered.”

“I don't want to!” Michael screams, momentarily forgetting about the forcefield, and tries to run at the Emperor. The electricity slams into her. Her vision fuzzes and she stumbles back into her chair, limbs buzzing, head pounding. 

“Oh, Michael, did that hurt?” Georgiou croons, leaning over her. Michael averts her eyes. Georgiou gently taps the side of her face until Michael looks at her. “I warned you.” 

“You're sick, Georgiou, and you know that. Let me  _ go _ .” Michael shoves her hand away. Georgiou sighs. 

“I'm not going to do that.” Michael takes a deep breath and settles into a crouching position on the chair. Michael's eyes are closed, but Georgiou’s frown radiates off her. 

“Michael? Are you wasting your time with that meditation-” Philippa waves her hand in the air. “- _ thing _ again?” Michael nods. Georgiou groans. “We were having a good conversation.”

Michael hears Philippa lean against the cell door. Michael counts for five minutes and peeks out through her lashes, waiting for Georgiou to yawn. She does, eventually, and Michael flips the ring around her up with a flick of her boot, rolling under the hoop before it clatters to the ground. She lunges for Georgiou’s phaser-like gun. 

A knife pricks at Michael's sternum. Philippa's eyes fly open. 

“Try anything like that again, and I'll cut out your heart, cast it in gold, and hang it from my throne. Back in the chair. I didn't want to chain you up, Michael, it's not  _ fun _ ,” Philippa grumbles, eyes gleaming in unnatural light. Michael raises her hands in defeat and settles back into the chair. Georgiou shoves the forcefield back into place with the tip of her boot, scowling. 

“You won't kill me. You had to see me die once already. You couldn't stand it again, could you?” Georgiou flicks her wrist, and a thin, piercing line of pain crosses Michael's face, across the bridge of her nose. Michael lifts her fingers to her cheeks, already tacky with blood from Georgiou’s previous attack. 

“I will  _ fucking _ kill you, without a second thought or any regret,” she hisses, pressing the knife against Michael's neck. Michael stays motionless. 

“Will you?” 

Georgiou forces the blade into her skin. 

“Do you want to find out?” 

“Not particularly.” Michael pushes the knife away from her throat, praying her tremble isn't coming through. She looks at this Philippa's cold, impersonal eyes. 

Her heart rips to shreds again. 

“You adored your Michael, didn't you?” Michael mumbles. 

“I did. And you are so similar…” Philippa tucks her knife away. 

“She wasn't your daughter, was she?”

“No. But we were not--we were not in  _ love _ , not the way you loved your Philippa. She was beautiful, Michael, and I was fond of her, but it wasn't  _ romantic _ love. Your Philippa was a mentor, you were her protégée; I was my Michael’s teacher, she was a...student. You…you are different, you are...utterly _ tempting _ ,” Philippa says, toying with the curls on Michael's head

“Good.” Philippa's hand reaches to hold Michael's chin in a nearly-familiar way. Michael wraps her fingers around Philippa's wrist. 

“Dinner? I promise no Kelpien this time. A… _ peace _ dinner.” Philippa strokes at Michael's neck.

“Give me some information. Anything. Some utterly irrelevant things. My ship should think I've gathered intelligence.” Michael’s thumb brushes at Philippa's wrists.  

Philippa sighs. “The ship is approximately thirty-five years old. The replicators often have to be repaired. There you go.” 

“Mm. Perfect. Let me out of this chair.” Philippa cautiously clicks off the forcefield and helps Michael to her feet. Michael smiles in return. 

“Remember, if you try anything, I'll turn your fingers into decorations for a mobile,” Philippa spits. Michael can't stop herself, and slams her lips into Philippa's, rough. Philippa shoves back at her, hands tight around Michael's ribs. Michael stumbles against the chair. 

“That's horrific.” Michael separates the kiss for just long enough for her words to slip out. “For what baby?”

“I don't know,” Philippa answers, clipped. “But I'd have to paint your nails. Gold.” Michael holds her fingers up. 

“Is black not good enough?” 

“Of course not. You need  _ gold.  _ Killy can get away with black, but you're not Killy.” Philippa kisses Michael's fingernails. 

“ _ I _ like it.”

“You're not from here. Let's go up.” Philippa leans into her wrist and barks orders, and soon enough they materialize in the Emperor’s quarters. 

Michael gapes. The room is massive, and completely golden. Heavy red curtains hang over the windows. The walls are gold layered over itself, lacy patterns. The floor is a black marble shiny enough to be a mirror. A table sits in the centre of the room, a strange, warping black plant whose flowers give the impression of burning thin black paper, the edges rimmed with orange. A large bathtub sits in a corner. Swords and daggers of all shapes hang on the walls. Michael steps back, the whole room suggesting a sort of opulence that Michael hasn't encountered. 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Philippa unhooks her armour and tosses it over the back of a chair, stretching. Michael wraps her arms around Philippa's waist. Her nose pokes at the base of Philippa's hair, releasing a  _ hmm _ of content from Philippa's throat. 

“It is. To be clear, I'm not going to abandon Starfleet for you. I  _ will _ go back. But...for a little while I'll stay here.” Philippa exhales, resting her hands over Michael's.

“That's all right, I  _ suppose _ .” Philippa hands Michael a strangely-packaged tray of pre-prepared food, grabbed off the table. Michael stares at it. “Don't let the appearance fool you. It's delicious.” An elaborate fork lands in Michael's hands. Michael turns it around in her fingers a few times. Philippa rips the packaging open and starts picking at the food in front of her, thumping into a chair.

“Is this how you eat?”

“When I don't have guests. I know these aren't poisoned.” Philippa takes a huge bite of her sandwich. “Go on.”

Michael takes a tentative nibble at the strange wrap-like thing on her plate. It certainly isn't anything like the other Philippa's delicious, fresh meals, but it's palatable. Michael takes a bigger bite. 

“Not bad, if I do say so myself.” Philippa pulls a menacing bottle out from under the table. Michael flinches. “Don't worry. It's just water. I don't want anything to poison you, Michael.” Two glasses emerge and are filled, the sound echoing.

“Can I have my communicator back, please?” Michael asks, staring at the possibly-water with suspicion. Philippa pulls it out of her pocket and slides it across the table to her. Michael runs it over her glass of water, and, confident in the fact that it is really water, takes a drink. 

Philippa groans. “You really think it wouldn't be water?” 

Michael shrugs. “Be quiet, Philippa.” Her communicator links up to the ship. Saru's voice crackles on. 

“Mi-Specialist Burnham, we can hear you.”

“I'll be down here for another night. The ship is approximately thirty-five years old, and the replicators often malfunction. I'll have more for you tomorrow.”

“Stay safe. Saru out.” The communicator fizzes off. Michael looks back to Philippa, who's planted one leg on the table, her other one on another chair. 

“Hmph. Come  _ on _ ,” Philippa huffs. 

“What?” Michael eats a slice of some kind of melon-like fruit. 

“No communicators at dinner.” Michael tosses her communicator into the middle of the table. 

“Is that better?” 

“Immensely. Finish up.” Philippa dumps her empty tray under the table. “And we'll clean you.”

Michael's face had gotten used to the stinging, but at the mention of it, the pain flares again. She polishes off the rest of her dinner as quick as she can. Philippa smiles. 

“Does it hurt?” Michael nods. Philippa traces her fingers around the edges of her scratches, leaning over the table. Michael flinches. “Oh, I'm sorry, darling. Come with me.” Philippa slides her hand into Michael's and pulls her to a bathroom, similarly lavish as the rest of her quarters. Philippa takes a cloth and soaks it in water, dabbing away at Michael's cheeks. Michael blinks. The care Philippa puts into gently wiping away the blood on Michael's face seems uncharacteristic of this Philippa's harshness, and feels like something incredibly intimate for such a simple act. Michael can see her dulled eyes in her reflection, eyelids lowered, dark circles painted deep under her skin. She leans against the sink and Philippa coughs in protest. 

“Stay  _ still,  _ Michael,” she grumbles, rubbing at a stubborn spot. 

“Stop being so rough. Give me that--” Michael yanks the cloth away and starts cleaning up her own face, to Philippa's dismay. 

“I'll be nicer!” Philippa exclaims. Michael scoffs and continues cleaning herself up. Philippa's arms wrap around her waist. Michael  _ hm _ s and continues her attention to her face. Philippa groans and kisses Michael's neck. 

“Stop that.” Michael shoves Philippa's head off her shoulder. “Wait.”

“But you're so damn perfect, Michael,” Philippa whines. 

“You'll live. Where's my field medkit?” Philippa sighs and pulls the kit out of a pocket. Michael plucks it out of her hand. She rifles through it for her regenerator, the device even more compact. Michael runs it over her scrapes and they melt away, her skin closing, leaving only a slight trace of blood. She wipes her face again. 

“My Michael would have left them,” Philippa complains, her chin resting on Michael's shoulder. 

“I'm not your Michael,” Michael says, flatly. 

“You're close enough.” Philippa runs her fingers over Michael's stomach. Michael shivers.

“Okay. How different was your Michael?” 

“You still have something warm in your heart. It shows in your eyes. My Michael was hardened. You-” she pokes at Michael's shoulder. “-are soft. There is less blood on your hands.” 

Michael snorts. Philippa looks at her in confusion. “I started a war. There is too much blood on my hands.” 

“Really? You blame yourself for your Philippa's death?” 

Michael flinches. “I never told you that…” 

“Stole it from your database. Mutiny carries so much damn  _ weight _ in your universe. Pity.” Philippa smirks. “You can't swing a sword here without stabbing a mutineer.”

“That's your universe. Don't people get killed for mutiny?”

“You only get killed if you don't succeed.” Philippa winks. Michael sighs and continues stroking Philippa's hands. 

“I guess you've succeeded.”

“Too many times to count. It's easy. Everyone wants to be captain. You promise them you'll move them up the the ladder. Then you kill them.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Michael droops. 

“No! Of course not.” Philippa's fingers shift to Michael's cheek. “I couldn't do that. It would hurt me.” Philippa presses a kiss to Michael's neck. Michael weaves her hand into Philippa's hair. 

“So you won't kill me?” 

“I answered you.” Philippa's arm tightens around Michael's waist. “Never.”

“Okay.” Michael takes a deep breath. “I was worried.”

“Don't be,” Philippa whispers, into Michael's ear. “I'll keep you safe.”

 

\--

 

Michael yawns, stretching her fingers apart as Philippa brushes gold over her nails. Philippa's bed is massive, and the most comfortable thing Michael's ever slept in, huge, luxurious pillows, a mattress that nearly absorbs her, puffy blankets with gold and red covers. Philippa's head rests lazily on Michael's shoulder. 

“Mm. I should get up, Philippa, my ship is waiting,” Michael murmurs, stroking the slight curls that have appeared in Philippa's hair. 

“Let them wait,” Philippa mumbles in response, layering gold on Michael's ring fingernail. 

“I think I will. Come here, Philippa--” Michael drops a kiss on Philippa's lips. Philippa purrs in contentment, curling up closer to Michael. 

“Thank you,” she mumbles, pausing her painting for a moment to kiss Michael's cheek. “This looks much better, doesn't it?” Michael holds her finished hand up to her face. 

“Does it?”

“Mm-hm. That one should be dry now.” Philippa tests each nail with a finger. “They're done. Now, hold still.”

Michael obeys and watches her black nails fill with gold, shining off the warm, dull light. Philippa wipes away a mistake with her fingernail. 

“This is nice of you,” Michael whispers, her free hand now draped around Philippa's shoulders. 

“It is, isn't it?” Michael's arms are a rather comfortable place for Philippa to be, and she enjoys it even more after missing her for so long. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Philippa shifts to face Michael, smiling. “Because,” she starts, stroking Michael's bicep, “you are gorgeous, and unlike my Michael, I am drawn to you. And you miss your Philippa.” 

Michael smiles back at her. “Okay. I do miss her. It's a...strange feeling, to see someone else with her face.”

“But I'm her. We're the same person. We had... _ different _ environments we grew up in.”

“Isn't that what makes a person?” 

“Maybe,” Philippa murmurs, filling in the edge of Michael's fingernail. “But not quite. Of course it  _ changes _ them, sure, but there's a core of person in there, and maybe that's a few character traits and a handful of morals, but  _ it _ can't change. You know I could be like your Philippa, if I wanted to, because that little seed is there. You can brainwash and break all you want. It's stubborn as fuck. I've tried to change that little voice that tells me I should have mercy, and it doesn't  _ shut its mouth _ .” Philippa punctuates the last few words with a forceful turn of the cap back onto the bottle of polish. 

“Philippa, is that true?” Michael's mind is processing the new information bit by bit. “Isn't that just your conscience?”

Philippa scowls. “No! Probably not. It's irritating.”

“I think that's your conscience.” 

“Doesn't matter. My point remains.” Philippa leans across Michael to drop the bottle on the table. Michael yelps as Philippa elbows her in the stomach, and Michael sees the look of ‘ _ whoops! _ ’ in her eyes. 

“Ow.”

Philippa tosses herself back to her spot and kisses Michael. “I'm sorry, darling, I didn't mean it,” Philippa rambles, propping herself up on one elbow and playing with Michael's hair. 

“I know you didn't, Philippa. Still hurts.” Philippa kisses the spot where her elbow had landed with a soft tenderness. She drops her cheek to Michael's stomach for a moment, feeling the gentle rise of her breathing.

“I kissed it better. Come here.” Philippa beckons for Michael, opening her arms and letting her fold into an embrace. 

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Burnham.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen, in which Michael Burnham feels out of place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comic relief ahoy! The Emperor is such fun to write

“There's a gala-formal event-possibly a setup for an assassination tonight, and I want you to come with me,” Philippa blurts. Michael blinks.

“Oh. Sure?” Michael stumbles. 

“I need your opinion on what I should wear.” 

“Okay?” Michael feels as if she's been whacked over the head with a log. Her mind spins. Philippa pulls open her closet, large enough to fit several people, and starts rifling through the clothes, armour and gowns and suits and leather and satin, expensive, luxurious clothes. Michael gazes into the portal. 

“Lovely, isn’t it? I need something badass  _ and  _ royal. Come on, help me look.” Michael blinks stupidly for a moment before jumping to her feet. 

“Do all your clothes have hidden knives?” Michael asks, shuffling through several bejewelled gowns.

“Well, if the pockets aren't big enough for swords,” Philippa responds, as though that were an obvious fact. 

“Okay, then,” Michael says, pulling out a draping dress and holding it up to Philippa. 

“That one’s hideous. Burn it,” Philippa says, passively, tossing a cream jacket with gold flowers between her hands. Dried blood spatters the sleeves. “I like this coat-thing, though.”

Michael plucks the blazer from her hands and inspects it. “It’s nice, but we should clean up those sleeves. Did you murder someone in this jacket?”

“Several people, actually. Ignore anything from here-” Philippa pulls out a strange-looking piece of fabric, seemingly some form of wrap. “-down. I keep them for... _ sentimental  _ reasons.” Philippa smirks and Michael sighs. 

“Right, then.” Michael tosses the jacket onto the back of a chair and continues looking through the endless row of formal wear. 

“This one…” Philippa holds out a corset-like bodice, intricately detailed with glimmering black stitching on pitch-black satin. “This one my Burnham gave to me as a gift.” 

Michael reaches for the fabric, brushing her fingers over the textured surface. “It’s nice. Wear it.”

Philippa  _ psssh _ s about it for a moment, thinking. “I suppose, if you like it.” Philippa tugs at one of the stitches, pulling open a small compartment with several flattened vials and the handle of a knife. Michael flinches. Philippa pulls out the dagger and pokes the tip to her finger, drawing a drop of blood.

“Did I make that for you?” Michael stares at the pocket.

“You did. You were such a devious one. Put needles in my shoes that could poke out from the tip, made knives that would hide in my hair, designed a hairclip that released poison. Lovely things, pretty things.” Philippa slips the knife back into position. “Shame you’re not so... _ crafty, _ ” Philippa murmurs, and Michael feels that devilish smile settle in her soul.

“I don’t want to make you anything that could hurt other people.”

“Again. Shame.” Philippa pulls out a pair of garish gold pants that Michael immediately vetoes. She pouts.

“Those were awful and you know it. Try these ones,” Michael helps, yanking a pair of strange leather pants off the hook. “How don’t you have any  _ normal  _ clothes?”

“I’m the  _ Emperor.  _ I’d rather be luxurious.”

“Fair point. I’m going to ask you to show me where you keep your shoes, and I feel like I’m going to regret that.” 

Philippa grins. “No, you won’t. Back up.” Michael steps backwards as Philippa slams the doors shut with a little too much force, pulls up a display, and clicks one of many buttons. Mechanical whirring comes from the floor under them. 

“By the stars  _ above _ ,” Michael grumbles, under her breath. If Philippa hears, she doesn’t react. The floor stops making suspicious noises.

“Ready?” 

“No.”

Philippa flings the doors open to reveal several shelves, filled with dozens of shoes, mostly some variant of spiked boots. Michael sighs. Philippa starts sorting through the compartments.

“Is this really necessary?”

“No. But I do like it!” Philippa drops a pair of lavish golden and black boots beside her, the chunky heel making a loud  _ thump _ on the ground. 

“Of course.” Michael drops herself into a chair and starts removing the bloodstains with a small, pointed tool, one that Philippa had dropped nearby seemingly for this purpose. They disappear, almost as if through magic. 

“You like these ones?” Philippa holds up a pair of off-white dress shoes, with gold soles.

“A little.” Michael shrugs, eyeing the shoes. “They’re not too bad.”

“All right, taking that as a yes. These ones?” Philippa asks, showing off a pair of boots dark enough to look like a hole in reality. Michael squints at them.

“Nope. Your wardrobe is a disturbingly strange place, I must admit. Where did you get all these things?”

“Gifts, mostly. People like to give me shiny things so I don’t murder them. It works pretty well,” Philippa says, shutting the doors again and tossing the boots she selected onto the chair next to Michael. 

“Of course it does. You're very materialistic, you know that?” 

“I want to be dripping in more wealth than I know what to do with, Michael, and I want a fucking  _ crown _ .” Philippa rips her closet open again and rests a crown on her head that looks like it cost more than the amount of latinum the Ferengi, as a whole species, owned. The light reflects off the inlaid diamonds with a harsh brilliance. Jewels drip across her face in strands. She looks too powerful. 

“Oh, by the Gods. Too much, Philippa.  _ Way _ too much,” Michael says, averting her eyes. 

Philippa pouts but replaces the crown anyway. She pulls out several more jewelled tiaras, all of which are met with a loud sigh from Michael. 

“Come on! I have to have  _ something _ ,” Philippa protests. Michael grumbles but pulls herself out of the chair and edges past Philippa to rifle through her closet. Her eyes sweep over too-fancy chunky headpieces, and spots a smaller, circlet crown, embellished with detailed golden flowers. Michael turns. Philippa stands behind her, arms crossed, leaning back. 

“Here,” Michael says, placing the circlet on Philippa's scalp. It looks beautiful on her, though strange with her armour. It shines with her hair.

“Hm. Perfect.” Philippa wraps her hand around the side of Michael's neck, pulling her close for a rough kiss, her hand bracing against Michael's ribs. Michael reciprocates the affection. Her arms wrap tight around Philippa's waist, shoving their lips together, this not-Philippa just similar enough to pull at her heart. Philippa separates them, shoving against Michael's shoulder a little. 

“Go up. Find something… _ nice _ to wear. Get back at eighteen hundred,” Philippa orders. Michael nods, pulling out her communicator. 

“Burnham to Discovery. One to beam up.”

“Discovery has received you.” 

Philippa blows her a kiss as she disappears. 

 

“You look perfect, Michael.” Philippa's eyes sweep up and down the deep orange-gold, flowing dress, sleeveless, purposely creased lengthwise, lightly cinched around her waist, sweeping with her as she walks, slit up above her knee. A crown sits in her curls. 

“I can hide anything in this skirt.” Michael detaches a knife from the hem. “Designed it.”

“Love the crown. My Empress,” Philippa muses, fondly. Philippa's hand strokes against her cheeks. 

“You look gorgeous too, you know,” Michael says, straightening Philippa's lapel. 

“Thank you, love, now, tell me if you can see my sword through my coat?” Philippa turns around with a quick spin of her jewel-encrusted heels. Michael inspects the back of her blazer for inconsistencies, but sees none. The flowers appear perfectly flat. 

“Nothing at all. You're a magician,” Michael observes, poking at her back to ensure the sword is really there. “But you've got your personal forcefield? So the sword won't be necessary?”

Philippa groans and rolls her eyes. “I told you. Yes, I have the forcefield,  _ but  _ a huge sword is intimidating and tends to throw people off, which is very useful, so the sword stays.”

Michael holds up her hands in the universal sign of surrender. “Yes, I know, I know. It's just irrelevant.”

“You are no  _ fun.  _ My Michael appreciated the occasional murder or suspicious death!” Philippa grumbles, crossing her arms. 

“You know I'm not your Michael. You know I have  _ morals _ against murder.”

“They're silly! We're all going to hell anyway, why not have fun on the way down? Come on, we'll be late.” Philippa strides out into the hallway, Michael trotting awkwardly alongside her. 

“Why are we taking a shuttle and not beaming over?” she asks, hiking up her skirts.

“A transport means I trust whoever is operating the transporter on the other side.  _ And _ a shuttle implies I'm rich and have time to spare.” Philippa taps her temple. “Logic.”

“Okay. You don't trust this lord?”

“I knighted him. I've known him since I was six years old. I don't trust anyone, Michael, even if he were to beam me over with his own two hands. And I was married to him for several years.”

“Is this Nikos Georgiou?” Philippa stops dead in her tracks. 

“You never call him that again, you hear me? Nikos Khan. That's his name,” Philippa hisses. 

“I'm sorry!” Michael holds her hands up in surrender. 

“You never say it again, am I clear?” Philippa's hand is hovering over Michael's neck. 

“I know. I won't. So it is?”

Philippa scoffs. “Yes, it is.”

“Does he have Milky, here, big fluffy Samoyed?” Michael asks, trying to lighten the mood. 

“Milky? No. He has a guard dog, though I believe his name is Knight. And he's not... _ fluffy _ .” Philippa's nose scrunches at the word. Michael holds in a chuckle. 

“I suppose you don't have any use for fluffy pets here.”

“Nonsense. I have a rather fuzzy cat. She's very good at implying I'm powerful enough to both afford a large cat and not need it for pest problems.”

“Why haven't I met her?” Michael pouts. 

“Because she's out getting her nails trimmed and her crown re-fitted,” Philippa replies, matter-of-factly. 

“Of course she has a crown. I don't know what I expected. Does she have a closetful of clothes, too?”

“Several, actually. I got her a cape with her name embroidered on the hem yesterday.” Philippa guides Michael in the right direction, linking their arms and drawing her down the proper corridor. 

“What  _ is _ her name?”

“Fred.”

“Why  _ wouldn't _ you name her Fred?”

“Insult Fred again and I’ll turn your organs into cat toys.” Philippa punches open the door to the shuttle bay. “After you, love.” 

Philippa’s shuttle is several times the size of a shuttle on the Shenzhou, and looks larger than the bridge. A lone guard salutes Philippa as she enters, bowing his head as he opens the shuttle for her. Michael bites her tongue to keep from thanking the crewman.

“You like it?” Philippa sweeps her arm across the lavish interior. Michael takes a disbelieving step into the plush red carpet.

“Philippa, are you always so extravagant?”

Philippa looks at her. "Of  _ course _ , Michael. You know that by now." 

Michael ignores her and continues looking at the golden room, a bookshelf elaborately stacked with remnants of battle, several comfortable chairs, a smaller, but still unnecessarily large, closet, a preserving glass box with prepared meals sitting on the different shelves, a curved sabre hanging above the doorway to the cockpit. Philippa plunks herself into one of the chairs.

"If you're hungry, take something from the fridge, make yourself at home. Tell me if you find one of my knives. Don't stab yourself."

"Do you leave knives lying around all the time?" Michael peers over at the relics in the display case, an elaborate vase catching her eye.

"Not intentionally," Philippa says, defensive. Michael can feel Philippa's eyes on her.

"I suppose we just follow the trail of knives if we want to find you," Michael mutters, under her breath.

"Come sit down with me, Michael," Philippa whines, tugging at the end of Michael's dress. Michael kicks back at her hand absentmindedly. She inspects the peeling spine and water-damaged pages of an old Vulcan manuscript, tossed open to a page of prayer. "I'm lonely! Michael, come on."

"You'll live. Where did you get this?"

"Some traitor had it in their pocket," Philippa says, absentmindedly playing with a small, intricate dagger. Michael spots the tiny specks of blood on the corner of the page.

"In my universe, almost all the hard copies of old Vulcan writing was lost. This would be more than worth its weight in credits." 

"It weighs almost nothing, Michael. It would only be, what, three thousand credits?" Philippa starts picking under her fingernails with the tip of the blade.

"You have no idea how many credits that is." Michael reluctantly settles into a chair next to Philippa.

"Oh, I know, it just doesn't matter. That's about a year's pay for one of my crewman."

"Credits weigh--if a crewmember is paid three thousand credits a year, they get eight point two credits a day. That's not even enough for a good meal." Michael looks insulted. "You can't pay them that little."

"They get quarters, and they get a replicator. That's better than most jobs, even if I pay them point seven credits an hour. And even though they'll probably get stabbed before they get there, at least they think they have a chance at being Emperor." Philippa continues digging dirt out from her fingernails.

"You have twelve- _ hour _ shifts?!" Michael protests. "That's torture! Starfleet has six-hour shifts!"

"I give them a ten-minute lunch break, I'm not  _ that _ cruel," Philippa explains, nudging her crown back into position.

"That's one  _ sixtieth _ of the time they work." Michael's face furrows.

"I know. It's generous."

"You don't--Gods. Can't you see how awful that must be?"

"I worked twelve-hour shifts, and I turned out all right. You get used to it." Philippa yanks her shoe off and inspects the heel.

"What about everyone else? Philippa, you need to have empathy." 

"I'm the Emperor. I don't need to be anything." Philippa clicks open the heel and removes a strange, miniscule clump of wires that looks suspiciously like a bomb.

"What is that and why is it in your shoe?" Michael looks at the object with a skeptical eye, trying to change the subject.

"It's an explosive device, and it's in my shoe so if it accidentally blows up, the lining will absorb the blow."

"I should stop asking you about these things." Michael folds the strange fabric of the dress between her fingers. 

"You shouldn't. It's funny to see your face when I have to explain them." Philippa leans over and kisses her cheek, balancing her hand just above Michael's knee. Michael slips her fingers into Philippa's.

"Am I amusing to you?" Michael asks, turning her head to kiss Philippa's lips.

"Immensely," Philippa purrs, moving her other hand around Michael's neck to steady herself. She hops over the chairs and lands squarely in Michael's lap. Michael yelps.

"Warning next time, Philippa," Michael protests, leaning her cheek against Philippa's back.

"No."

They sit in each other's company for the rest of the shuttle ride.

 

Philippa strides into the hall with an arrogance Michael has become accustomed to. Her heels click against the grand marble floors. Michael gapes at the gorgeous room, windows reaching up to the grand ceiling, silver tapestry-like paintings on the ceiling, a magnificent, glimmering topaz yellow chandelier easily bigger than Michael's quarters hangs from the ceiling. She nearly trips over her dress.

“Not quite as good as mine, but gorgeous, right? I think he's certainly got a sense of style.” Philippa drops herself down next to a beautiful potted plant and lounges in a chair, her foot dangling over the armrest.

“You are incorrigible, Philippa.” Michael settles uneasily in a similar chair. 

"Of course I'm incorrigible, Michael, I'm the Emperor."

"Where is everyone?" Michael asks, trying to divert the topic.

"We're an hour early. Nikos wanted to see me."

"Oh. Shouldn't  _ he  _ be here, then?"

"We like being late here because it implies we don't give a single credit about what's happening."

Michael sighs. "This universe is a pile of confusing etiquette and another pile of ways to sidestep all the previous rules. How do you even keep it all in your head?"

Philippa grins. "I'm the Emperor, so if I mess up, people accept it as the new thing."

Michael groans. "Of course. Almighty emperor. Dictatorship."

"You are no  _ fun!  _ I miss my Michael. She was fun."

"Yes, because gruesome and unnecessary murder is fun."

"Yeah. But we did other things, too! Like watch movies with Fred," Philippa explains, adjusting her sitting position. 

"Did you do that multiple times?"

“No, but it still counts!”

“Not really. You just murdered all day?” Michael shakes her head.

“And...that's actually quite accurate.” Philippa grins.   
“By the Gods, I despise you, Philippa. Is that Nikos?” Michael points out at a shady figure on the walkway.

“Well, he did love making a grand entrance. It’s probably him.”

Philippa was right, as he enters the door with arrogance to match Philippa’s, and several dogs, in jewelled collars and strange headpieces, tailing behind him. One barks. Michael stares at this Nikos, only having seen him in photos.

“Nikos, dear, how are you?” Philippa purrs, leaning forwards on her hand.

“I’m all right. That’s not Michael, is it?” Michael blinks.

“Nope. I suppose your Knight told you that?” Philippa pulls herself lazily out of the chair and stretches. “She’s from a different universe. A sad, soft universe. They have no  _ respect  _ for murder there.”

“Wait. How do you know I’m not from here?” Michael questions, quite out of the loop.

“Knight barked at you. So, you’re from another universe?” 

“Yes?”

“Philippa, can I steal you back or are you  _ fond  _ of this one, too?” Nikos asks. Philippa sighs and scratches the head of the nearest dog.

“Unfortunately. Also I don’t and never did love you. I just wanted your last name.” 

He  _ pssh _ s. “Shame. Too bad I’m susceptible to bribes.”

“I have questions, Philippa,” Michael chimes in, watching the scene with an amused face. Philippa’s hand comes back and covers her mouth. Michael protests.

“Sh. I’m having a conversation,” Philippa scolds. Michael rolls her eyes. “You were very susceptible to bribes, weren’t you? At least you got a couple billion credits out of it.”

“I did. It was nice of you.”

“I was going to kill you and get my money back. But you grew on me, I suppose, and now I have a rich socialite who’ll go to parties and tell me who’s planning to assassinate me.”

“You do, baby,” Nikos teases. Michael’s eyebrows raise.

“Call me that again and I’ll feed your heart to Fred. Is this party a setup for a murder? Or more than one, if you’re  _ fun. _ ” Philippa glares back at Michael.

“You know it. Don’t eat anything. Or drink anything, unless I give it to you.”

“Ooh, mass poisoning! Interesting.”

Michael pushes Philippa’s hand off her mouth. “Really? Right in front of me? You’re going to murder, what, twenty people?”

“Thirty. And it’s a slow-acting poison! You won’t see the life drain from their eyes.”

“Is that so much better?” Michael’s eyes widen.

“Yes, obviously, for a buzzkill like you. Not for us, though. It’s more fun to watch them cough up half the blood in their body,” Nikos complains, a spark in his eyes.

“Oh, my Gods, how is anyone alive in this universe?”

“Because we’re not afraid of a little blood on our hands. Or a lot.” Philippa smiles. “We’re all going to hell anyway--”

“So let’s have fun on the way down,” Nikos and Philippa finish in sync. Michael sighs.

“Get a room.”

“Only if you’ll join me.”

“Philippa, no.” Philippa beams.

“Yes. Come on, Michael, you’re no fun. Nikos, do you have any boring old things for her to look at or...a book or something?” Philippa gestures vaguely.

“I’ve got some fancy old Andorian book on display. You can have that, if you want, Michael,” Nikos offers, distracted by his dogs.

“That would be wonderful, Nikos, thank you.”

Nikos looks at Philippa with a disbelieving face. “She’s really not from here, is she?”   
“What?” Michael looks at them, her state of confusion getting irritating.

“You don’t thank people, Michael, you just go ‘give me the thing’ and they give it to you. You’ve learned nothing.”

“Well, I’m sorry I have manners,” Michael retorts.

“Again! Stop being sorry, Michael, not here. Gods. Nikos, grab the book.” He obliges, followed by his cloud of dogs. 

“Doesn’t it get boring, just ordering people to do things?” Michael asks, nodding her thanks to Nikos, who hands her a falling-apart book, the front cover intensely scratched.

“No,” Philippa answers, adjusting her crown. 

“Not at all,” Nikos agrees.

Michael sighs and flips open the manuscript, scanning the paragraphs. 

“She’s just going to sit there and read for the whole party, I swear,” Philippa mutters. Michael smiles a little, but does her best to hide it.

“Could be worse. Don’t get in our way, and I won’t break your fingers, Michael,” Nikos threatens.

Michael smiles.

“I won’t be any trouble.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen, in which Michael Burnham finds a substitute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short little chapter! hugh, paul, and tilly appear, tie-in to 'magic to make the sanest man go mad.'

 

“Stamets, may I speak to you?” Michael stops in the middle of the hallway, drawing Paul's attention. He turns with a scowl. Michael stands perfectly still, clenching her hands behind her back to hide their tremble. 

It has taken three days to work up the ability to even attempt to bring up what she intends to discuss, and perhaps it was not long enough. 

“You have three minutes, or I will be  _ unacceptably  _ late for my dinner. Go.” Stamets stares at her with a cold, unimpressed look  

“I lied,” Michael states, bluntly. 

“About what? I don't have all day here, Burnham.” His eyebrows raise.

“When I told you I had never been in love. That was a lie.” Michael twists her thumb behind her back, pinching the soft flesh of her palm.

“Okay, and I care...why?”

Michael's heart sinks to the pit of her stomach. 

“Never mind, Commander. I shouldn't have bothered you.” 

Stamets releases an exasperated sigh and abandons Michael in the corridor.

She waits until he is fully gone from her view before running down the corridor, sprinting, away, away, holding the sour punch at the back of her throat, her tears pressing down. Her strides lengthen. Each hit of her foot to the floor is jarring. Crewmembers stare at her. Eyes stick to her skin, looks, words, and they itch, and she just wants to shed her skin. 

It takes far too long to find a service closet.

She assures the door is locked before she crumples into a corner, surrounded by reserve oxygen tanks, sobbing into her sleeve, uniform crinkled, and she stares through blurry eyes at the door, wondering why she thought she could talk to  _ Paul Stamets _ , of all people. 

 

It takes twenty minutes before a gentle knock at the door interrupts her reflection. She jumps, and wipes her nose and eyes on the back of her sleeve. 

“Specialist? Burnham, are you in there? It's Doctor Culber.” His voice is concerned. Michael says nothing, hoping he'll leave. 

“I'm going to come in, all right? Don't be afraid, it's only me, okay, Burnham?” Michael shakes her head, even though that can't transmit through walls. The door clicks, whirrs, clicks again, then slides open. 

“Computer, lights at forty percent,” Culber orders, and as his eyes adjust to the light, he notes Michael, curled up in the corner, and he hurries over to her, reaching for his comm. Michael's tears had stopped a few minutes ago, and she feels her eyes fill with water, and before she can stop it, she's sobbing again, face against her knees. Culber’s hand rubs circles across her back. 

“I'm so sorry, Michael, that Paul was so rude. I'm going to call Cadet Tilly, okay?” Michael nods, because she needs Tilly's brilliant smile today, and lets him quietly comm her. 

“Do you need anything, Michael? Some water, a blanket?” Hugh prods, letting Michael lean on him.

“No--no, I'm..it's okay,” Michael mumbles.

They sit in hopeful silence for a few moments before a ball of red hair comes bounding in the door, interrupting them.

“Michael?? Michael, what happened?!” Tilly hisses, jumping to her side, pushing hair out of Michael's face. “Hug?”

Michael nods. Tilly's arms wrap around her, curls fall over her shoulder, and Tilly holds her close. Michael detaches herself from Culber.

“Doctor, what happened to her? Is she all right?” Tilly asks, her hands resting against Michael's head, who is using her shoulder as a pillow. Michael holds on to Tilly with a firmer grip.

“In the time loop, Michael lied to Paul about having never been in love. She approached him about it, and he was...well, he was himself,” Hugh explains, and Tilly's arms squeeze around Michael even more.  

“I'm sorry, Michael, what--”

“Burnham!” Paul whips in the door, eyes shining with a mycelium coating. He bounds to her, wraps her in a hug, even warmer than Tilly's. Michael blinks and coughs. 

“I'm sorry, Michael...I know it now. I know who it was. I'm so sorry,” Paul whispers. Tilly shifts, already uncomfortable with the weight of both of them. 

“Paul?” Hugh prods, concerned. A hand waves at his face. 

“I'm  _ fine _ .” Stamets stands with finality, pulling down the bottom of his shirt. He awkwardly pats Michael on the head before settling next to Hugh. 

“Can I ask, Michael, who it was? It's okay if you don't want to--” Tilly mumbles, rocking back and forth.

“I do…” Michael inhales, deeply, shaking, and prepares to break a promise. “Ph–Philippa.”

“Philippa?” Tilly asks, confused. 

“Captain. Captain Georgiou--” Michael's voice cracks, and she sobs again, crying,  _ whimpering _ , because her Philippa is gone, and Tilly's holding her like Philippa would, when a day was done and they curled up in bed, when Michael's anxiety was twining itself around her heart, when Philippa felt too overwhelmed and could hear every buzz and beep, when they needed closeness, and Tilly's not a great Georgiou but she might do the trick, if Michael can close her eyes firmly enough, and at least she's softer than Ash-

“Oh, my God, you were in love with  _ Philippa Georgiou!? _ Michael!” Tilly rests a cheek against Michael's skull. 

“We--we were together--” Michael inhales sharply. “Together for three years--”

“Three  _ years _ ? Michael, oh my God…”

Tilly cradles her, holds her against her shoulder, and Michael sucks in a deep breath, pretending the uniform she's pressing her cheek into is Philippa's. 

She was wrong. 

Tilly makes a  _ fantastic  _ Georgiou. 


	16. Chapter Sixteen, in which Michael Burnham is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the chapter you may or may not have been waiting for!! tw for mentions of self-harm and suicidal thoughts, also scars. 
> 
> based off a shorter fic i wrote a while back on here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16360820). it's the extended universe i promised!

Michael grabs a canister of spores from the wall and leaves, her mind thump-thumping away at the issue it has been presented. She cracks the container open in an empty cargo bay. The air around her crackles and jolts, electricity arcing in a corner, as Ripper materializes again. He starts happily chomping away at the spores. 

“Hey, bud. Can you do something for me?” Michael whispers. He bounds over and nuzzles against her face. “Can you take me to Philippa Georgiou?” His head tilts at the name. “You have a--a--what, maybe a waiting room for ghosts? That's what our research said.”

He whimpers and nudges her side, shaking his head. His claws click against the ground as he curls up around her. 

“Is she there?” Michael knows the panic must be showing in her voice, so much worry. 

He lets out a  _ huh, huh-huh  _ sound that seems like a no. Michael's heart plummets to her feet. 

“Oh, no, did she leave by now?” Ripper shakes his head again, curling tighter around Michael. “Is...no, she's still alive?” Michael mumbles. Ripper perks up and the air around him crackles again. “Please, let me see her. I--”

She jumps to another dimension. 

Endless grey surrounds her. A Philippa hovers nearby, and Michael runs for her, watching her crack open her eyes to Michael's arms wrapping around her and holding her tight. She laughs. Michael would have sold the Discovery out to hear that disbelieving laugh. 

“Oh, Michael, oh,  _ bibi _ , I've missed you. I love you.” Philippa hugs her back.

“I thought you were dead, Philippa,” Michael murmurs. Philippa kisses her, big and lovely and so dearly missed. Michael gapes, shoving herself into Philippa's powerful arms. 

“I missed you too. So much!” Philippa wraps her arms around Michael's waist, resting her head on her chest. She rocks gently back and forth. Michael strokes her hair.

“Where are you?” Michael can't think of many ways where Philippa is somewhere safe. 

“I'm on a Klingon prison ship. L’rell...she’s here. I don't know exactly where I am. But I managed to make a beacon so you could find me,” Philippa offers, and Michael holds her tighter. 

“Are you okay? You...how have you lasted for so long?” Michael doesn't want to push her luck, but she wants to know. It hurts her. 

“I'm rather injured. I can stand for barely five minutes. I can't breathe without hurting. They have to hook me up to a machine that circulates my blood while I sleep, because my heart is failing. They want me alive, but I can't last much longer, or I'll really die. And I did just hit my head. Maybe I'm dead now.” Michael switches her hands to hold her cheeks, stroking Philippa's high cheekbones with her thumb. 

“I will come find you.” Michael knocks their foreheads together. 

“Please. Michael, I miss you. Can we maybe cuddle? I just….I miss the uniform and my biceps and my hair. Please?”

“Philippa, of course.” Michael isn't sure how they're suspended in midair, and she isn't about to ask, as she does seem to have a floor to lie on. Philippa hums.

“Oh, thank you,” Philippa mumbles, sliding down to her seat before lying on the ground. Michael lies down next to her and nestles herself in, her arms around Philippa's waist. She lets Philippa snuggle into her. Philippa closes her eyes and smiles. 

“Comfortable?”

“Immensely.”

Michael strokes her fingers through Philippa's hair lazily, the weight of her head on her shoulder a fixture.    


"I missed this, Michael," Philippa mumbles, her cheek pressed against Michael's shoulder. Her fingers carefully trace patterns down Michael's ribs.    


"Let me check. We're in a different dimension."   


"Mmhm," Philippa hums, gracefully curled up in Michael's arms.    


"You've been alive for over a year in a variety of prison ships."   


"Yeah."   


"And you think you might be dead now," Michael says, not quite believing. .    


"I hit my head really hard," Philippa groans.    


"And now we're cuddling.

"Because I love you. And because I miss you. And I miss my old hair and actual biceps and a not-ripped uniform." Philippa kisses along Michael's jawline.    


"Also, I summoned Ripper so he could bring me here," Michael says, shuffling around a little to accommodate Philippa.    


"I'm not going to ask who Ripper is. Stop. Enjoy this--" Philippa gestures harshly at the endless grey suspending them "--and stop trying to be logical. You know love  isn't." Michael smiles.    


"I know." The silence holds for a beat, the release a tension in itself.  "At least it's quiet here, my darling." The words slip from Michael's mouth like smooth stones.   


"And beautiful, a little bit. There is something to be said about grey."    


"There is," Michael affirms. She tightens her grip, almost imperceptibly, to pull her closer to Philippa. "Sometimes the absolute of space makes me forget how to see beauty in things other than supernovas."   


"I always found you the most beautiful when you were looking at stars," Philippa muses.    


"You mean when I looked at you?" Michael grins. Philippa chokes, almost jokingly.    


"Michael!" Philippa protests, her cheeks pink.    


"I can't compliment my, my  _ lover _ ? I--" Michael continues to speak in questionable Greek, which Philippa's rather rusty Greek manages to decipher in a matter of seconds.    


"'I'd rather see your lovely step, your sparkling glance and your face than gaze on all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and glittering armor.' Of course, Michael," Philippa sighs. Michael is absolutely beaming.   


"I've waited a year to say that."   


"Hm." Philippa smiles faintly. "I think we're leaving this dimension, Michael, just now," she mumbles. Michael can feel the way her mind is detaching from her body, and she's torn between a joy of Philippa being alive and the awful reality Philippa faces when she returns. 

"I love you, Philippa, and I swear I'll find you."

"I know, my love," Philippa whispers, as they flash into dark.    
  
Michael wakes up in a mess of spores in the drive cube. She realizes, through her foggy state, that there is a wholly tangible weight on her, and that Ripper is curled up around them, and that Philippa is here, and back, and fully alive. Michael sobs. 

“Oh, Michael!” Philippa breathes, and Michael sees the way her uniform is ripped up, the way her ribs protrude from her skin, the way her body has more bruises and scrapes than untouched skin, the way one eye is scratched through and discoloured. 

“Philippa, my love, what did they do to you? Oh, your arms! Your eye…” It hurts Michael to see Philippa so hurt, so weak. 

“I'll be okay now, _ bibi _ ,” Philippa murmurs, clinging to Michael and shivering. Almost alien hands wrap around Michael. Michael wriggles out of her jacket and wraps it around Philippa's shoulders. 

“I hope so.”

The words get barely a moment before Philippa presses her lips to Michael's, with force. Michael kisses her back as the cosmic remnants of her mind gather, create a nebula, form stars upon stars upon stars. Her heart sings. She shifts her position to hold Philippa with the affection she deserves. Philippa smiles and curls into Michael's embrace, gasping.

“You are….you're such a  _ romantic _ , Michael,” Philippa chuckles, into the soft flesh of Michael's shoulder. Michael revels in the sensation. 

“We should get you to Sickbay. Can you stand up?” Michael asks, still feeling as if she had detached from reality. 

“I'd rather not. Can you carry me?” Philippa mumbles. Michael shuffles awkwardly into a position for the purpose of lifting Philippa. 

“Philippa, Gods, you're so much lighter…” Michael whispers, mostly to herself. She leans on Ripper to get all the way to her feet. Philippa kisses her jaw, the only skin available to her. 

“Thanks, big... _ tardigrade? _ ” Philippa chuckle-coughs. Michael holds her close as she reaches for the door button, finally managing, through her fumbling, to release the door. She walks out into the cold Engineering. Several pairs of eyes stare at her. 

“Hello?” Michael stares back at Stamets. 

“Is that?” he asks, eyes wide and shining with mycelium. 

“Yes, it's the original one. No mirror-universe tricks here.” Philippa's form feels too fragile in her arms, and Michael's mind is ordering her to run to Sickbay. “I'm just going to-scuse me, sorry Tilly-take her to Sickbay, yeah?”

“Oh-okay?” Tilly squeaks. “Wait. No, let me beam you up--okay, uh--” Tilly bounds behind a console, tapping frantically. “Hold still, Michael-”

“Tilly, it's--” 

The gold sparks fly and send them up in a familiar sensation to the entrance of Sickbay. 

“Hugh? Can you...uh, can I explain later?” 

“Yes, please, put her on the bed--” he turns. “--Commander!” Several people come bustling over with medkits, shooing Michael away, though she doesn't go until she's left Philippa a kiss and a promise to come back. 

 

She sleeps well, with the knowledge that Philippa is close.

 

Michael gets given the opportunity to see Philippa only once more, just a sleeping, fragile shell in a hospital bed, until she’s carted back down to Earth, and Michael waits for an unending two weeks before Philippa can come back to the Discovery.

 

Michael can see the guest quarters in the corner of her vision, but Philippa is what matters now, the soft skin of her cheeks gathered in Michael's hands. 

“I missed you,” Michael croaks, sobbing. Philippa strokes her jaw. 

“I missed you too.” Philippa leans forward to meet Michael's lips, a lovely, warm kiss that heats her core, the way Michael holds Philippa's cheeks letting her feel Philippa's little movements. 

The kiss is enough to make Michael wonder how she managed without Philippa for so damn long. To hold on to her moments with Philippa for longer, she wraps her arms around Philippa, letting her head nestle in her shoulder. 

“I love you, Philippa,” Michael murmurs, through her tears, so quiet. Philippa's head adjusts on her shoulder so she can send a message back. 

“ _ Sayang, _ ” Philippa whispers, trembling with sobs. Michael strokes her rough, singed hair with careful fingers. 

“Please don't leave,” Michael pleads, her arms tightening around Philippa's fragile frame.  

“I swear I won't, not again, oh, no, it was all my fault. I'm so sorry, Philippa, I--I--” Philippa runs her hand up and down Michael's sides, brushing over the raised deltas. 

“It wasn't. I forgave you so long ago–” Philippa's voice crackles and she descends into sobs again, right in Michael's arms, where she belongs. 

Saru, sensing the fact he should leave, slips out the door silently. Michael doesn't need a guard. 

“Michael, how about a nap?” Michael leans down and brushes her nose against Philippa's forehead. 

“Of course. Are you hungry?” Michael places her hand on Philippa's back, watching her manipulate the controls with tiny motions of her core, guiding her chair over to the replicator.

“No, Gods, Michael.” 

Michael chuckles. 

“Bet you’re limited to bland protein packets still, aren’t you?”

Philippa groans.

“They’re worse than garbage. I just want something that doesn’t taste like the pulverized remains of the colour beige and chalk,” Philippa groans, kissing Michael’s hand.

“We can find you something. A celebration, for being alive.” Michael feels a sour bite at her throat, feels water collect in her eyes.

“Oh, Michael, are you crying? Oh, _ baobei _ , come here,” Philippa murmurs, her hand splayed at the back of Michael’s neck, tugging Michael down into another kiss, a lovely feeling of lips on lips, her hand playing with Michael’s curls. Michael sobs, collapses onto a chair, braces her forehead against Philippa’s.

“I’m sorry, Philippa, I--I thought about you so much...I missed you so badly, by the stars, Philippa, I thought I should have died with you-...my mind told me I should have, should have shot myself with the phaser, shouldn’t have suffered,  _ oh,  _ please, don’t be a dream, please,” Michael rambles, her hands gripping Philippa’s tight enough for her knuckles to turn pink.

“Oh, Michael, darling, I’m sorry, I’m here now, I love you...oh, come here,” Philippa soothes, pulling her into a hug, a warm cocoon for her to enjoy. “I’m not a dream, I’m here, no mirror universe tricks, just me.” Michael is soaking the shoulder of Philippa’s uniform. She trembles in Philippa’s arms, her hands weakly grabbing at Philippa’s waist.

“Philippa-- _ ah, _ ” Michael whispers, her voice hoarse.

“It’s all okay, love, it’s all okay, shh, shh, shh…” Philippa kisses Michael’s forehead, a quiet expression that causes more overflow of tears from Michael.

“Is it, is it, it’s okay?” Michael mumbles, trying and failing to stand upright.

“It  _ is,  _ it’s okay, oh, let’s get you into bed, and get you some food, too, have you been taking care of yourself?” Philippa holds out her hand. “We can snuggle.”

“Phil--Pippa, my Philippa,” Michael rasps. “I love you.”

“Oh, Michael, I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner...oh, baby girl!” Michael rifles through her pockets, emerging with a heavy gold badge.

“Still--still have yours,” Michael murmurs. Philippa stands, shaky, and to Michael's joy, pulls her into a forceful kiss, Michael’s back pressed against the table, Philippa’s weight balancing on Michael’s lips. Michael wraps her arms carefully around Philippa’s ribs, trying to carry her a little, lighten her weight to keep the kiss longer. It seems to work.

“Mm...baby girl,  _ sayang _ , so sweet of you to keep a little thing around so long…” Philippa murmurs, quiet, her hands on Michael’s shoulders.

Michael smiles. “Philippa, I love you, so much, and I-I–” Her throat catches on the last syllable. Philippa lifts her hand up to her mouth and kisses her knuckles, closing her eyes and feeling the tough skin built up on Michael's hand. 

“Shh,  _ bibi _ , I know what you want to say. It's all right if words are hard. Are you ready for bed?” Michael nods. “Right. I--I'll get my respirator aid set up, you go get yourself into bed, love.”

“Philippa, do you...do you want anything?” Michael whispers, not sure what she's asking. 

“No, baby girl, don't worry about me,” Philippa assures, rifling through a bin. Michael slides out of the room.

 

After Michael finishes replacing her uniform with soft pyjamas, she returns to find Philippa swiping at her tears, trembling, sitting on the edge of the table. She hunches over and wraps her arms around her stomach. The strange mechanical device that surrounds her chest makes a peculiar noise as it starts up. She breathes a shaky breath, with more ease than she is used to.

Michael's footsteps pad into the room, and she sits herself next to Philippa, stroking her back through quiet, heartbreaking sobs. 

“Philippa--oh, shhh, it's all right, my love,” Michael murmurs. She grabs a blanket and drapes a blanket across Philippa's shoulders, pulling her in. “What's happening? Is something wrong?” Michael prods, gently.

“It's nothing, it's just silly, oh, love…” Philippa mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

“What is it, Philippa? Please, tell me, I promise I can help.” Philippa sniffles, wiping her nose on her sleeve. 

“It's just the scars…Michael, they make me feel so  _ worthless _ , so--so  _ broken _ , and I don't deserve your love, Michael, I'm just some useless heap of hurt...please. Michael, I don't deserve you…” Philippa clutches onto Michael with right force.

“Tell me,” Michael whispers. “Show me which scars make you feel like that.”

Philippa shrugs the blanket off her shoulders and sheepishly points to a scar across her left ribs, clawlike, sickly bruised. Michael leans down and presses her lips to the textured skin. Philippa's respiration device heaves with her breathing. 

“You deserve love,” Michael murmurs. 

A kiss lands on the brand positioned on Philippa's bicep after Philippa points to it. 

“You deserve love.”

A kiss to the burn marks at the base of Philippa's neck. 

“You deserve love.”

A kiss to the lash marks spanning her lower back. 

“You deserve love.”

A kiss to the puckered scrape on the inside of her calf. 

“You deserve love.”

A kiss to the fading scratch below and above Philippa's milky-cocoa recovering eye. 

“You deserve love.”

A kiss to the exposed portion of the brutal slice down her chest. Michael looks the shuddering Philippa in the eye. 

“You are _ worthy  _ of love, my darling.”

At that, Philippa crumbles back into tears. Michael holds her with care and love and sheer  _ hope _ . 

“You are brave, you are worthy. Tell me, Philippa. Tell me you are worthy of love.” Michael's voice is so tender, so carefully soft. She strokes Philippa's cheeks. 

“I am  _ worthy _ of your love,” Philippa croaks. Michael kisses her forehead and tightens her grip on her waist, entwining their fingers. 

“Not just my love, Philippa.” Michael can't hold Philippa close enough, her hands stroke in patterns across Philippa's back. 

“I am...I am worthy…” Philippa pauses for a shuddering breath and to wipe away her tears. “...of love.”

Philippa blinks at the revelation. She can barely, barely believe it, that Michael would still love her after everything, and that Michael would think that she deserved that love is a settling thought. 

Michael presses her lips to Philippa's. 

“Scars...Philippa, they are just that. You are nothing less for them. Even if we can't make them disappear yet. You are just as beautiful.”

Philippa takes a shuddering breath. “But I'm not, Michael, I'm  _ not _ , I can't be...look at these things...Michael…” she trails off. 

“You are!” Michael protests. “Oh, Phil, what would you say to a cadet who was acting like you are right now? You would tell them it's silly to think that an issue with your skin would make you  _ unworthy _ of love.” Michael shifts her position to lean against the bedframe, letting Philippa rest against her. 

“But...Michael… it isn't just--” Philippa chokes, and Michael grabs a soft tissue to wipe away at her cheeks. 

“Oh, Philippa. My love, my love, shh, Philippa, love,” Michael soothes, folding her arms around Philippa's too-prominent ribs. 

“But...it isn't just physical scars, Michael, you know--you know that. She fucked with my head and I'm so lost, Michael….” Philippa trails off into a series of sharp inhales. She trembles. Michael holds her closer. 

“Philippa, oh, shh, they'll pass, they'll fade, and they might not go away completely but at least they'll be less important, Philippa.” 

Philippa flips and buries her face in Michael's shoulder. 

“You  _ can't _ still love me,” she pleads, fists balling up the fabric of the blankets. 

“I can, Philippa. You are  _ recovering _ from severe trauma, I am recovering from extended periods of depressive episodes, as well as a plethora of other ignored mental states. They are not the same, but I can understand, Philippa, I understand  _ longing _ .” Michael sniffles. Philippa holds onto her with force. 

“But I can't walk! I can't even  _ talk _ on bad days, Michael. I can't eat anything. I want to go home, but I don't even know where that is…” Philippa sobs. Michael strokes her back. 

“You have gone through  _ hell _ to end up back in my arms, and that is something you forget. You have been through more than anyone should be asked to withstand, and you feel that an  _ temporary inability to walk due to intense trauma to the legs and a sharp decline in muscle mass  _ and  _ periods of involuntary muteness  _ would stop me from loving you?” Michael presses first her lips, then her cheek to the soft texture of Philippa's hair. Philippa breathes in the scent of Michael's uniform and wrestles with the notion of love. 

“Maybe. But I can do  _ nothing _ to return the affection you provide me with. I am a  _ rock _ you give affection. Why would you tolerate that, Michael?” 

Michael looks at her with a confused expression. She takes a deep breath. Her arms wrap around Philippa's tiny form stronger. 

“You will do  _ so _ much, Philippa. Even just today, you kissed me and said how okay everything will be, you held my hand when I needed it. It isn't what you used to do, Philippa, but it is what you do now, my love, and it is more than enough. And what does it matter, if you can't speak or walk? There is a wheelchair. I can sign. My love, it is enough. You are  _ enough. _ ”

Philippa sobs, Michael comforts her. 

“I--it isn't enough, Michael, that can't be enough...it can't be, it  _ can't _ !”

Michael waits for a moment. 

“But it is. It is more than I  _ deserve _ after what I’ve done.” 

Philippa shudders in her arms. Michael holds her in place to keep Philippa's elbows away from her ribs, stroking her cheeks with the pads of her fingers. She watches as the shuddering ceases and Philippa pulls up her blanket. Philippa's position adjusts, allowing her to place her head on an available shoulder and wrap herself around Michael. 

“You deserve the cosmos, Michael,” Philippa whispers. “I am not enough.” Michael blinks. 

“ _ You _ deserve everything, my love, I am not enough,” Michael responds, confused. 

“Michael, you are a universally recognized quantum physicist with equally strong work in xenoanthropology. Most of the textbooks at the Academy have your research. I am a  _ captain. _ ”

“You are a  _ fleetwide name _ in a good way. You have saved millions of people. You are the most decorated captain in Starfleet history and you turn down half your awards. How do I compare? I am no one.”

Philippa's eyes crack open and she stares at Michael in disbelief. 

“We are...perhaps, Michael, we are good enough for each other. Why are we thinking of ourselves like this?”

“I can't say I know. But I know that I love you, Philippa, and you love me, and that's what I need right now. May I kiss you, Philippa?”

“Yes, darling, please.”

Michael's lips are warm, softer than Philippa remembers, and taste of lemon and home. 

“I'm going to bed, Michael. I'm tired.”

“So am I, Philippa.”

Philippa lets Michael pick her up and deposit her in bed. Michael sheds her uniform jacket as she makes it up to Philippa's bedside. Philippa smiles at her, tucked under several blankets.

“There you are, my love. One moment-” Michael yanks her boots off and tosses them aside. She hops onto the bed.

“Thank you, Michael , for the way you tell me everything will be okay.” Philippa presses a quick kiss to Michael’s lips, with a little  _ hmm _ noise.

“It  _ will  _ be all right.” Michael wriggles into Philippa’s husk of blankets. Philippa wraps her arms around Michael’s waist and rests her head on her chest, the worn Vulcan-patterned shirt soft against her cheek. “Tell me some good things about your time first.”

“I met a brilliant cadet named Sylvia Tilly. We were roommates. She had a lot of feelings, and she was so adorable.”

“I smell a little crush.”

“I did think she was...cute,” Michael admits, sheepish.

“Don’t be embarrassed! I’m happy you got to experience a real,  _ human _ crush. I thought you’d have to live without, and that sounds sad.”

“Oh...well, I had a bit of a romantic partner, Ash Tyler. It...it was a mess.”

“Ash Tyler? Is that--oh, Gods, they briefed me on him, I didn’t know you two had dated, Michael--” Philippa reaches a hand up to blindly swipe away Michael’s tears. “I’m sorry, that must have hurt so much.”

“It did and--oh, I’m not even sure if I loved him, no, no, I just, I wanted someone who could hold me, and he was strong like you and...Philippa, my love, I’m sorry.”

“Michael. Listen to me. It really is not my business who you have been romantically involved with. You thought I was dead. And I don’t mind, if you loved him, and I would have understood if you had found someone else. I’m happy, if it helped you, Michael, because you know I want you to feel happy.”

“Oh, Philippa,” Michael breathes. “I...My Gods. You are so beautiful.”

“Thank you, Michael. You are breathtaking, always, my darling Michael,” Philippa murmurs, into Michael’s neck.

“I...you don't mind at all that I was dating someone?”

“No, Michael, I don't. It's a part of life. Talk to me about prison itself.”

Michael laughs, a terrible snort. “I...I barely remember anything. I have this scar on my leg, massive scrape, and I'm not completely sure how I got it. I think I got stabbed with a fork, then it got poorly removed.” Michael freezes, holding Philippa gently. 

“Did you just remember?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Did you stab yourself?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Oh, darling, do you want to keep talking?” Philippa prods, with love. “If you want to stop, we can stop.”

“No, Gods, I...I didn't remember why I was in prison in the first place. I thought a transporter accident killed you. When I remembered--I accidentally shoved the fork into my leg.” Michael takes a shaky, deep breath. “I thought of myself as an ‘it’. Not a person. Just a worthless space junk.” 

Philippa tightens her grip around Michael's ribs. “That's awful, Michael, I...did they get you anything? Your anxiety meds?” Philippa whispers, her head tucked into Michael's neck. 

“No, they didn't. No one wanted to come near me, no one wanted to see me. More than one prisoner tried to kill me.” Philippa can feel her trembling. 

“Stop when you want to,” Philippa reminds, adjusting her hands. 

“I didn't try and stop the person who broke into my cell and started throwing me into walls. I could have. I didn't stop one of them from stabbing me. I should have died at the Binary Stars, is what my brain said, I should have told Saru to wait so I could grab you. I tried…” Michael's voice cracks. 

“No, Michael, you're so brave, so brave, it's all okay now. I've got you, shh, oh, _ bibi _ .” Michael cries. Philippa holds her. 

“Philippa, oh, please, you can't forgive me, there's no way you have, I did so many awful things, how could you love me still?” Michael stammers, through tears. 

“Because living with spite is not a good way to live. It will hurt you. I love you, Michael, so that's what matters.” Michael makes a continuous  _ oh, oh, oh  _ sound, shaking in Philippa's arms. “I love you, go ahead, get it out, get it out.” Philippa traces concentric circles on Michael's stomach. 

“It's okay to love, Michael. It's okay to cry.” Michael’s hands find purchase on the sides of Philippa's head, the hair unkempt and tangled. 

“Can I stop?” Michael asks, fear full in her voice. 

“Of course, Michael. Let's just cuddle.” Michael breathes an audible sigh of relief. 

“Thank you, Philippa,” Michael mumbles. Philippa kisses the divot between her collarbones. 

“Michael, you should never do what you're not comfortable with. You know my rules. You tell me if you're not feeling one hundred percent okay with what we're doing.” Philippa curls up with her. “You like the cuddling? This is okay?”

“Yes, oh, I love you, I thought I'd never see you again. And now I have you…” Michael murmurs, quiet, careful. “I'm afraid I will fall asleep and this will be a dream.”

“Has that happened before?”

Michael nods. “It has. Many times, oh, Philippa, you don't know how much I missed you, I thought my body was going to crumble to dust.”

Philippa strokes her cheek. “I knew you were still alive. I didn't feel like you did, yet I missed you still. Michael. I spoke so much Klingon, I practiced poems alone in my cell so I wouldn't forget Standard or Malay or Greek. I was clinging to a hope that you would move on. I wanted to come back to a Michael that seemed alive, a Michael holding on to hope and love and everything good. I think I found...not what I was looking for. But I love  _ you _ .” Philippa strokes Michael's side. 

“I'll be back, when I wake up and you aren't gone, and I can finally, truly remember.” Michael nuzzles at Philippa's forehead.  

“Sounds perfect. I missed this, using you like a pillow, hearing your heart beat, feeling your breathing rise and fall. Made me know you were alive,” Philippa mumbles. 

“Comforting.” Michael strokes Philippa's hair, her face tacky with dried tears. “I'm willing to be a pillow, if it makes you happy.”

“You're okay with it, though?”

"I don't mind at all, my love." Philippa shifts herself to lie on top of Michael.

“Mm. You make a decent bed.” Philippa drapes her arms around Michael's shoulders. “And you have an unsettlingly slow heart rate.”

“Vulcan technique. Keeps me calm,” Michael explains. Her heartbeat speeds up, self-conscious.

“Huh. I'm so glad, Michael, that you're alive. You know I will never stop being thankful for that.”

Michael blushes profusely. “I'm…I thought I was going to die so many times this past year. I don't know how I made it out, but it's nice we're back and that you love me so much.”

“Michael, I always loved you.” Philippa hears it as a confession, though Michael knows the statement. 

“I know. And I always loved you, Philippa. Even when I thought I had found you in Ash.”

“Gods, I'm tired,” Philippa murmurs. 

“Sleep, then. I won't move,” Michael promises, holding Philippa close to her. Philippa murmurs a weak protest. Michael insists, and lets Philippa fall asleep, carefully cradled in her arms, so perfect. 

Michael oversleeps her shift, but that doesn't matter, when Philippa is just back, and Michael feels as though she is finally returning to herself. 

 


	17. Chapter Seventeen, in which Michael Burnham and Philippa Georgiou decide.

Michael helps Philippa out of her chair into the bright Langkawi sunlight, watching her smile at the saturated blue water. 

“Isn't it beautiful, Michael?” Philippa whispers, tightening her towel around herself. Michael steadies her. 

“It is. I'm so glad you took me here again, love,” Michael responds, staring down at Philippa's too-thin legs, the scars, the bruises, her muscles fumbling against the sand. 

“Please, Michael, don't look at them…” Philippa mumbles, and Michael shoots her head back up.

“I'm so sorry--” Michael presses a kiss to Philippa's warm lips. Philippa kisses back, a hand drifting to Michael's abdomen. “--Tell me if I do it again, my love.”

“I'm all right...it's just the feeling that I'm not how I want to be, Michael.” Philippa sticks her foot into a pile of sand. “Thank you for arranging this. It's hard to find places like this.” Philippa gestures at the empty beach. 

“Anything for you, love.”

Michael helps her into the water, releasing her at waist height. 

Philippa beams, and it's perfect for a moment, until she bursts back into straining tears, her hands trembling at her sides, this love too much, too  _ much.  _ Michael's arms wrap around her, tucking her head into the crook of Michael's neck, hands brushing gently up and down her sides. Philippa's hand crumples uselessly against Michael's collarbone, trembling. 

“Oh, darling, oh, Philippa, it's going to be all right. It's going to be all right. My love, my love, shh, shh,” Michael soothes, not sure of what she's attempting to say. Water laps at her stomach. Michael places a hand on the small of Philippa's back, feeling the too-prominent bones. 

“Michael...I can't--I  _ can't _ ,” Philippa protests, her fingers curling around the straps of Michael's swimsuit. 

“My brave Phil...it's okay. Shh, shh,” Michael whispers, stroking up and down Philippa’s skull. 

“It isn’t, it isn’t, no...please...tell me the story again,” Philippa breathes, cautiously, clutching Michael for her life. Michael’s heart breaks.

“Okay, love.”

Michael sits her down on the shoreline, wraps her in a towel, and spins her story again, the girl who cut the stars into sails, who built boats out of clouds and ice, who drew maps with the feathers of winged spirits and the blood of flowers to find her love, her love the moon. Michael makes it halfway through, detailing the girl’s construction of wings of rain,  _ the heavy raindrops gathering on the flat, glossy spread of the leaves, almost solidifying before her-- _

Philippa’s kissing her. 

Michael melts. Philippa is pressing her lips so gently to Michael's, and she's not sure when Philippa started the kiss, or if it'll end, but her heart is thumping out of her ribs, reverberating in her lungs, and Philippa's hand has found a place on Michael's stomach, brushing across muscle and skin, and Michael shivers a little as the water pushes against her toes, Philippa leaning in closer, and for just one  _ glorious  _ moment they are back, Philippa leaning in for a kiss on their shore leave, and tomorrow, they'll go for a hike, stop for lunch at one of the lovely spots Philippa enjoys, and have a nice swim at the smaller beaches, watch the families go by, look at that amazing grin Philippa gets from playing with sand, listen to a tale Philippa tells about her own childhood, maybe, Philippa will drag her out of bed at three in the morning for a spontaneous swim, water inky-black and shining with moon, and Philippa will pull her in for a kiss and carry her back to the house, read her a book as they fall asleep.

Eventually Philippa releases Michael and drops to her side, resting her head in Michael's lap. Fingers play with the soft skin of Michael's thighs. Michael winces when Philippa pokes a nerve. 

“Don't do that, Pippa, please. Where's your squishy thing?” Michael asks, rubbing her hand on Philippa's back. 

“‘m sorry, Michael,” Philippa mumbles. She reaches for her bag, rifling through the contents and emerging with a small blue ball, spongy, and squeezes it a few times.

“It's all right, love.” 

“You're such a comfortable pillow, Michael..have I said that before? You really are,” Philippa whispers, her head resting on Michael's thigh. “You'd think all that muscle would make a terrible pillow.”

Michael tenses the muscles in her legs to prove a point. Philippa huffs and presses the foam orb to Michael's leg in a halfhearted attack. 

“Stop it. I just want to lie here--”

And Philippa cries again. She shifts on her back, stares into Michael's darkened eyes, trembles under her concerned gaze. Michael's hands cup Philippa's head, gently, as she leans down to press kisses across every inch of Philippa's face. Philippa cries even more under Michael's attention. 

“Do you need something, right now, Pippa, love?” Michael asks, between soft pecks to Philippa’s cheeks.

“I need--I need to go home, and I need Milky, and I need my blanket, and I need you, and I need different clothes, can we-oh, Michael…I'm so sorry...so sorry,  _ sayang… _ ” Philippa manages, her throat closing up.

“For what? It's okay, my darling.”

And they do everything Philippa has asked for, and Michael does even more, and it’s been hours since Michael fell asleep but Philippa’s mind hasn’t shut off yet, glancing at the chronometer,  _ 23:32, 01:07, 02:23, 02:59, 03:46,  _ watching the trail of the moon outside their window, watching lights flash by, staring at the glossy vine in the corner, her vision grayscale.

A thought hits her, and she turns in her tired haze to poke Michael’s shoulder.

“Michael?” she asks, curling into Michael’s side

“Hmm? Philippa, what's going on?” Michael responds, bleary. 

“Michael?”

“Yes. Gods, I'm awake. What's happening?” Michael turns in bed to face her. Philippa latches on again. 

“Do you want to get married?” Philippa mumbles, into Michael’s shoulder.

Michael blinks. 

“Yes. A lot.”

“Perfect,” Philippa says, squeezing Michael closer.

“But...not this holiday. I don't want to put you under any pressure,” Michael explains. 

“That's all right. Well, Michael, since we're sort-of-maybe engaged now, do you suggest we do something today? You know, if there's anything you want to see out here.” Philippa stretches her left hand, examining the curves of skin between her fingers. Michael blushes with the knowledge that Philippa must be mentally summoning a ring onto her finger. 

“Let's--let’s go back to that beach.” 

“Okay. Today?”

“Sure. I-well, it  _ is _ three hundred hours, we’ve got a lot of time left.” Michael feels Philippa wrap an arm around her torso and rest her head on Michael’s shoulder. 

“Mm. Love you for not minding that I asked you to marry me at three forty-eight a.m.,” Philippa murmurs.

“It’s okay. I love you too,” Michael responds, brushing her fingers through Philippa’s curls. “I don’t mind.” Philippa hums a short, soft tune and drops her hand to rest on Michael’s abdomen.

“That’s nice of you,” Philippa mumbles. “I feel bad now.”

“Why? It’s shore leave. We can sleep in.” 

Philippa smiles and kisses Michael’s jaw. “Right. Almost forgot.” 

Michael sighs and adjusts their blankets.

“Because having Milky sitting on our feet all night and the humidity and also the comfortable pillows didn’t remind you, you silly captain,” Michael jokes, gently shoving Philippa’s shoulder.

“Shush. It’s three in the morning. Don’t wake up Milky, the poor bean,” Philippa fake-whispers. Milky sticks his head up and his tail flops a few times.

“I’d say we already woke him up. Milky, come here!” He barks and trots up to Michael, shoving his nose against her cheek. 

“Good boy. Happy your mamas are gonna get married?” Philippa coos. His tongue hangs out of his mouth and he grins. “What a good puppy! Love you, Milky!” He barks in response, panting. Michael scratches his head. 

“You're so lucky you're cute, Milky, or I would have banished you,” Michael grumbles. Milky tilts his head and licks her cheek. 

“Stop saying things like that to our son. Milky, she doesn't mean it, come here,” Philippa says, reaching over to scratch behind his ears. 

“He's not our son!” Michael protests. He plunks his head down on her stomach, allowing Philippa to continue her affections. She smiles and kisses Michael's cheek. 

“Yes, he's our son, aren't you?” She fawns over him. Michael groans and rolls her eyes, tightening her grip around Philippa's shoulders. 

“He's a dog. Philippa, he's not our son.”

“Come on, Michael. He's our son and you know it.” Philippa jabs her in the ribs. 

“Fine. Milky, be gentle.” 

He leans over and licks her face, resulting in a laugh from Philippa and an exaggerated pout from Michael. 

“Good job, Milky! Good boy! Do it again.”

“Philippa--” 

Michael is cut off by Milky's slobbery kiss, and this time she lets herself laugh. 


	18. Chapter Eighteen, in which Philippa Georgiou is a good captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Yes!

"I don't see why I have to wear leg corsets," Philippa grumbles, clicking the device around her calves. Michael sighs. 

"They're not leg corsets, they support and--"

"-stabilize my legs, while holding most of my body weight. I still don't why I have to wear them," Philippa moans, clicking the last clip in place. Michael shoves the last fastener down on her other leg. 

"Because if you don't wear them now, you'll have to wear them for the rest of your life. Your body can't handle your weight yet, and you'll mess up your legs. Then I'll have to dejam your med-chair for the next hundred years, because you decide to try and jump over things," Michael explains. Philippa squeezes her leg.

"I'm--all right, Michael, but only because you said so. Give me a kiss?" Michael leans up and stretches her neck to plant a kiss on Philippa's jaw.

"At least I get to be back." Philippa zips her Starfleet jacket back up, over her black shirt. She pulls wires out of her shirt and reconnects them to the port in her neck, waiting for the first cold slap from the nutrients. It hits and she shivers. "Can you take me to Sickbay at lunch? I need to submerge myself in strange gel water again."

"Stop making solid-based therapy sound so much like a horror movie, Philippa."

"It is from a horror movie! It's also full of spores for the reason you told me but I can't remember!"

"A theory that connection to the mycelial network aids healing by supplying the body with necessary nutrients?"

"See? So strange. Come on, we'll be late for our shift. I'll give you a hug if you get me a croissant?" Philippa extends her lower lip, pouting. Michael sighs and hands Philippa her bun, which she readily devours. Michael wipes crumbs off her face.

"Give me your boots. I found insoles that'll help your posture." Philippa hands her the shoe, watches her shove the blue shape into the opening and adjust it accordingly. Michael slides it back onto her foot, one, two.

"Mm. Thank you." Philippa grips her shoulder to balance her as she stands up, coughing. 

"Could have asked, Philippa."

"No. I don't have to ask my fiancée about such trivial things." She pecks Michael on the cheek.

"No flattery will get you what you want. Come here, I need a real kiss," Michael protests. Philippa presses her lips against Michael's, heavy weight against her jaw. Michael scrabbles at  Philippa's back. She hadn't expected such a powerful response from Philippa, and Philippa most certainly knew that.

"I wish I could do that for more than three seconds," Philippa complains, massaging her jaw with a displeased expression on her face. "It hurts."

"Oh--well, just give yourself a few more weeks."

"I'm an annoying, impatient, grumpy old lady, though, Michael," Philippa grumbles, already out the door.

"You are none of those things except impatient and a lady." 

"No, I miss our real kisses, Michael, and I just want to be better, Gods." Philippa starts out the door.

"Wait--Philippa, don't walk so fast!" Michael protests, running out the door to follow her. Philippa sighs and waits for Michael to catch up.

"I'll walk as fast as I want, Michael, I'm the captain again!" Philippa grumbles.

"No, you won't, or you'll pull muscles in your leg. Moderate pace, Philippa." Philippa rolls her eyes but slows her walk anyway. Michael links their arms and they wander back down the hallway, down to the lift.

"Did I tell you how much I love you today?" Philippa murmurs, leaning on Michael's shoulder, her arms around her waist. "Next shore leave we should get married."

"We can. I want to meet your sister again. She's hilarious."

"Amy? Last I heard, she threw a cake at the leader of the group that's trying to disband the Federation as a fascist organization. I think she might be out building a cabin in the forest with her best friends now." Michael blinks.

"She's got a lot of stuff just....happening all the time, doesn't she?"

"Yeah. Deck one!" Philippa orders, and the lift hisses into motion. "She was such a boring kid too. Guess she realized life is better when you're not a prick about everything."

"I just assumed she was crazy like you."

Philippa laughs as they step onto the bridge. "No one was as stupid a kid as me, Michael. They all had some shred of common sense."

"Right. Your chair?" Michael turns the captain's chair around for her to sit down.

"Thank you, sir. Gods, I missed this so much. Michael, kiss?" Michael presses a kiss to Philippa's cheek before taking her station, watching the gleam in Philippa's eyes grow to a bubbling laugh.

"I'm back home now, my Michael. And to everyone, let's keep boldly going!" 

Keyla grins and shoves them into warp with a click of a button.

"Thank you, all, for not minding my silly antics while I try to recover. Love you all!"

"Thank you, captain, for being a role model. And for remembering everyone's birthday."

"Not a problem, Mister Saru. Happy belated birthday."

Philippa beams.

  
  
  



	19. Chapter Nineteen, in which Philippa Georgiou is unhappy

Michael adjusts the draping fit of Philippa's gown, sliding her fingers down the sides.

"You look beautiful, love," Michael murmurs. Philippa smiles.

"Mm. Thank you. Too bad I couldn't get by in a suit."

"I promise you'll never have to wear another dress. Probably. But you do look lovely."

"I swear, these things are _designed_ to keep you from kicking people. Gods," Philippa complains, tugging at the neckline. "I remember having to wear dresses at family gatherings and hating them so much I'd go loot the drawers of whoever's house it was and change. It's why I'm never in family photos, though think there's a good one of me hurling a dress into the ocean."

"I forgot you were a nightmare child."

"So were you, Michael," Philippa retorts.

"I can't argue with that. I'm sorry about the dress, really, but this culture seems to designate clothing based on how curly your hair is. Seems arbitrary."

"So was old-style gendered Earth clothing. Incredibly arbitrary. Oh, Gods, these eye-colour things are _awful._ "

"Also true. Help me with this, please?" Michael twists the long fabric piece around, unable to find the proper way of wear.

"Stop fighting it and hold still," Philippa orders, shaking it out and gently draping it over Michael's shoulders, clicking it into the proper spot. "How come you get the badass cape? This is unfair."

"I know. But curling your hair would be too risky, and we have to keep ourselves well hidden. This strange armour piece is uncomfortable, if that makes you feel any better," Michael says, adjusting the jewelled plate across her shoulders.

"It doesn't. Is your phaser hidden?"

"Yes." Michael reaches to the back of her belt piece and retrieves the weapon. "You?"

Philippa slides her micro-phaser out of her hair. "Yeah. Remind me not to bow too deeply."

"Okay. Did you eat already? The food available is not suited to a human digestive system. But, if you have to--"

:Eat the pomegranate. I know, you told me. It's called--what is it--moon jewel melon? Roughly translated."

"That's it, and it's not a pomegranate, it's just a similar plant, and it's the only thing that won't poison you."

"I _know._ Come on, I hear there's some dog-creatures down there, and if you tell me not to touch any of them again, I will, just to spite you."

Michael opens her mouth to speak then closes it, adjusting Philippa's hairpin.

"Ready, Michael?"

"Tell me the rules."

Philippa groans. "Don't eat anything. Don't drink any of the water. No kissing, but dancing is allowed. Don't let your hairpin fall. Avoid conversation about religion. Don't touch anyone's shoulders, that's where their scent receptors are. We're looking for anyone with blue eyes and gloves. Miss anything?"

"You forgot about the fact that eye contact is important for the person to believe you are telling them the truth. Make eye contact in every conversation."

"Fine, yes, okay, let's go." Philippa leans up for a kiss and grabs Michael's hand tight. "Energize."

 A well-crafted topiary garden appears in front of them, in front of a rather large house, with a swirling night sky encapsulating everything, and the ground a strange, spongy texture. Philippa pokes it with her foot a few times. Michael jabs her in the side.

"That's rude, Philippa!" she whispers.

"There's no one here. And it's weird!" Philippa returns, still prodding the ground with a pointed shoe.

"Stop it. Come on, we've got to get in. Have your invitation?" Philippa yanks it out of her pocket.

"Mhm. Here, you talk." Philippa shoves the holographic token into Michael's hands. She leans on Michael's shoulder as Michael passes the invitation on to the seemingly bored person waiting at the front gates. They look it over before handing it back with a forced smile and a push of the doors. Philippa gapes at the interior.

The ballroom is absolutely massive. The ceiling, nearly thirty metres high, by Michael's estimation, is coated in swirling gradients of glass and jewels, cracks filled in with gold. The black, textured, cutout overlay on the shining walls looks elaborate, and handmade. The floor is a negative version of the ceiling, flattened. It activates all of Michael's xenoanthropology studies. Philippa looks similarly shocked.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Michael whispers, leaning close to Philippa's ear.

"Certainly. I wasn't expecting something so...so..." Words fail her. She squeezes Michael's hand and changes the subject. "We should find a way onto a balcony."

"That's suspicious. It would be better if we could find a way to the dance floor, which is centred and also brings us to all sides."

"Good point. Also, many, if not most, people appear to be at least mildly intoxicated, which should cover up any missteps.”

“Onward, then?” Michael places her hand on the small of Philippa's back as they start to wander towards the floor. They appear to be unnoticed.

“I'm at least glad this society has the decency to have flats,” Philippa whispers, dodging around a potted plant.

“I concur. These boots are surprisingly comfortable, really. Fix your hairpin.”

Philippa adjusts the tight clip.

“Thank you. Will you lead?”

Michael smiles. “Of course. One, two, three,” she murmurs, walking Philippa through the unfamiliar steps, the way that Michael leans against her while avoiding the shoulders, something that clogs her mind, hard-coded to traditional dance.

“Michael, how in the hell did you manage to learn this?” Philippa grumbles.

“Vulcan music is surprisingly flexible. Many of the dances were formatted in curious ways.” Michael slips Philippa into a dramatic spin, practiced. “Wasn't too difficult.”

“You are an endless riddle, Michael. Endless.” Philippa reaches for her hair and retrieves her phaser, nodding over to a well dressed attendee, with pants, a loose blouse-style shirt, and a cape, accompanied by short, wavy, dark hair, gloves, and blue eyes.

“Is that them?” Michael asks, into Philippa's ear.

“Definitely. That tattoo is traditionally on assassins galaxy-wide,” Philippa answers, aiming her device properly. Michael feels it hum to life and shoot. The alien collapses. Philippa slips the phaser back and starts yanking Michael away, a concerned expression on her face.

Screams begin.

They shove open the doors and sprint out behind a bush. Philippa calls for extraction, Michael holds her hand tightly and slips her a kiss along with a murmuring of affection.

The transporter operator looks at them with wide eyes. “I'm sorry--what?” he stammers.

“Jo, don't worry about it. Michael, midnight snack and report writing?”

“Sounds wonderful.” Philippa links her arm with Michael and strides into the hallway, leaving a bewildered ensign behind.

“Should I feel bad for Jo?” Michael asks, wandering down the deserted hallway.

“Probably. Poor sap. He's going to be stuck in that transport room forever.”

“He’ll go somewhere if he wants. I think he likes it. Deck two!” Michael orders, the lift doors closing. The elevator clicks up to the floor.

“Mm. He is good at troubleshooting. Maybe he deserves a promotion.”

“Huh. Maybe.” The doors slide open and spit them out right in front of Philippa's quarters. Michael taps in the code without looking and steps in, taking a seat on one of Philippa's armchairs.

“I'll be back in a moment,” Philippa calls, walking into her bedroom with her dress half-unzipped already. Michael lifts her cape and jewel-encrusted armour off her shoulders. She sighs and, rather quickly, replicates some pyjamas and throws them on. Philippa emerges a moment later, a crumpled sleep-shirt on, along with some strangely warm pants. Michael blushes. Philippa looks adorable, yawning.

“Right. Okay, you get cracking on the description, I'll get us a snack,” Philippa says, rubbing her eyes. Michael reaches for a PADD and reluctantly starts filing away. Philippa _hmms_  over the replicator for a few minutes, before deciding and letting the smell of hot food fill the quarters. Michael's stomach grumbles.

“Here you are. Some thick soup, yoghurt, crackers, a cookie. I know you, Michael,” Philippa teases. Michael blushes and starts eating, leaving the cookie untouched.

"You do, love. Now eat that cookie. You know I don't want it.”

“ _Michael!"_ Philippa protests, cookie in hand.

"You're so silly."

"But you love me!"

Philippa rests her head on Michael's shoulder.

"Unfortunately," Michael mumbles, wiping crumbs off her uniform.

"I heard that!"

   


	20. Chapter Twenty, in which Milky the Samoyed has an important job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> milky (the dog, the floof, the legend!) was made by @onaperduamedee (or radiolaires here) and i have borrowed him again. for an important job. this chapter is fluff. so much fluff.

 

Saru straightens Michael's collar.

“There we go, Michael,” he affirms. “You look very nice.” She smiles.

“Thank you, Saru, for doing this for us.” Michael pulls him in for a hug, a tight one, rather unexpected on his end. “You are family, and I love you so much, _so much_!” Saru hugs her back.

“Same to you, Michael. I'll go grab our Tilly. She refuses to let you go until she's looked you over.” Michael chuckles.

“Makes sense.” He opens the door, and Tilly bounds in, her dress swirling.

“Oh my God, Michael, you look so gorgeous! I swear, if you weren't taken, I'd be in love with you already!” Tilly bubbles, pulling Michael into another hug.

“Thank you, Sylvia. You look adorable.” The pale blue of her dress, along with the layered skirt that bounces and swishes with her is quite flattering.

“How are you feeling? Are you nervous? I can help, if that's what you need?” Tilly is beaming, staring at Michael's clothes.

“No, I actually...am not nervous,” Michael says, incredulous. “I guess I know everyone here. And--I really don't know. How's Philippa?”

“She's so gorgeous. Like, if I had seen her as a straight person, I would have immediately turned my sexuality to ‘it's complicated’.” Tilly grins. “Seriously. You _scored_ and I'm jealous.”

“Tilly, I love you. Come on.”

“No, really. You are so freakin’ pretty. Like-soft butch, that _hair_ ? My _God_.” Michael smiles and rearranges her hair a little bit.

“Thank you, Tilly. You've done a lot for me.” Michael squeezes her hand.

“It's just what friends do. Also I had one huge crush on you when you first showed up.”

“I think I should be flattered. Come here.” Michael squeezes her into a big hug.

“Aw, Michael. Good luck!” Tilly squeals.

“Thanks,” Michael whispers. Tilly beams back at Michael as she leaves the room, bouncing on her heels. Saru peeks out from behind the door.

“You're okay, Michael?” Saru seems rather concerned.

“I'm all right,” Michael confirms. She leans over to grab his hand. “Thank you. Really, for everything,” Michael gushes.

“Close your eyes.” Michael does so, and feels a weight settle across her scalp. "For you. So you can be a _queen_ , Michael." Michael is grinning, beaming, and reaches up to brush her fingers against the raw stones.

"Lovely. Saru, thank you." Michael means it from the bottom of her heart.

"Your lady is waiting." He guides her out of the room, putting a hand between her shoulder blades. She closes her eyes. The door swings open, Saru's hooves click back on the floor.

"Michael, my love, you look amazing." Michael feels Philippa's hand grab hers. "You didn't have to close your eyes."

"I know. I just wanted to." She lets her eyes slip open. Philippa squeezes her hand as she gasps.

"Do you like it, Michael?" Michael trails down the blazer jacket, a bright red, the dress shirt, a pitch-black, elaborately embroidered with black-on-black stars, a white tie, suspenders, which have a dizzying effect on Michael's heart, grey pants, creased neat, red boots that seem to nearly match the coat. Michael's mouth is hanging open.

"Gods, yes, Philippa. You look so beautiful."

"So do you, Michael." Philippa looks over Michael's purple top, the curved hem and the mesh covering her shoulders and arms, the white pants and her yellow belt, the glittering crown of quartz in her halo of curls. "Ready?"

"One kiss?" Michael barters.

"Of course, almost-wife," Philippa agrees, leaning over to give her a kiss.

"Mm." Michael winds an arm around Philippa's waist, prompting an exasperated sigh from Saru. "We just have to make it through this dinner, then I really _will_ be your wife."

They walk out into the park, Saru tagging behind them like a tired chaperone. Tilly immediately spots them and bounds over, curls flying. She beams. Warm, dimmed sunlight surrounds Tilly and adds a glow to her shine.

"Oh my _God_ , you two are gorgeous! Hey, everyone!" she announces, drawing everyone in. Michael and Philippa get surrounded by well-wishes and greetings and hugs from every member of the Shenzhou and every Georgiou who could manage to come, dressed in fancy clothes and some in uniform, a handful in casual clothes. Michael can say she has never seen a group of people like this before.

"Hey, Shenzhou and friends!" Philippa calls, holding her hand above their heads. The conversational noise dies. "Thank you! I'm happy to see you all made it, one way or another," she says, nodding at Keyla holding a tablet with Joann video-linked, "And we're happy for your support! For now, please just eat, and we'll bug you with our sappy romantic 'wedding' thing in a bit." Philippa lowers her hand and watches as the crew dissipates.

"Philippa, you are a witch." Philippa leans in to snuggle closer to Michael.

"But you love me." Michael kisses Philippa's loose curls.

"I do," she whispers, squeezing Philippa closer to her. "A lot. You have pretty hair."

"You said that to me when you fell down the cliff and hit your head," Philippa's chuckles. Michael stops to think for a moment.

"I did, didn't I?"

"You also said 'I don't like girls ever. 'cept you', Michael. It was completely adorable." Michael blushes.

"Did I?" Michael is completely flushed.

"You did, my dear, and it made me laugh. It's strange to think that a head injury is what brought us together."

"I suppose it did. Just keep me away from cliffs," Michael jokes. Philippa squishes Michael's cheek with her nose.

"I love you, and I certainly will. I still cannot understand how you didn't smash yourself to bits."

"Fate wanted us to stay together, I guess," Michael murmurs.

"How funny to hear that from my logical Michael. Are you hungry?" Philippa is already dragging her to the selection of food laid out for their guests.

"I can't say no, can I?" Michael protests.

"Nope. You should eat something." Philippa grabs her a plate and shoves it into her hands.

"All right." Michael gives in, just a little. "But I'm not going to eat a lot, fair warning."

"As long as you won't get hungry later. Go. I'm going to find Milky."

"I'm not forgiving you for making the best man a _dog_ , Philippa!" Michael calls after her. Philippa sticks her tongue out.

"You will, when you see his fluffy, adorable face!" Philippa shoots back. Michael sighs and picks up a slice of bread freshly made from Nambue's oven, which he dearly missed while in space and had the joy of making enough food in to feed the whole Fleet. She adds more pieces of food to her plate. Nearly everything, she notes, was made or grown by one of the members of the crew. She smiles at a piece of lettuce from Januzzi's garden.

"Hey, Burnham." The voice of Nikos's sister comes from next to her. "How are you?"

"I'm well. Philippa just ran off to find Milky." Michael can't stop a chuckle from her throat, although it's overpowered by Amy's loud snort.

"Of course she did. Are you nervous or excited?"

"To steal a line from Tilly, I'm about forty percent excited and sixty percent terrified."

"Tilly. That's the cute one with those poofy red curls and the blue dress?" Michael nods. Amy smiles. "She was absolutely flirting with me five minutes ago."

"Is that a good thing?" Amy looks at her with a slightly horrified face.

"Of course, Michael. Lord, you're lucky you scored Pip."

"It took three years and a concussion." Amy takes a giant sip from her glass, which Michael is starting to doubt is water.

"Michael, that is...I'm not surprised." Amy clicks her fingers together, rings clinking.

"It's unfortunately in character," Michael admits. Amy pats her shoulder.

"It's okay. Let me guess. You thought you were straight."

"Yeah."

"Philippa has that effect on people," Amy adds, taking a bite out of some sort of chocolate dessert. "I'm gonna go talk to your Tilly again. Good luck, Michael." Amy salutes and slips away.

"Good luck to you," Michael returns. She turns and nearly drops her plate, seeing Philippa and Milky perched behind her.

“Look at him! Look at his pretty face!" Philippa coos, throwing her arms around his neck. Michael sighs and scratches his ear.

“He is cute, Philippa.”

“He's our son, Michael, and we love him.” Philippa hugs him harder. He sticks his tongue out and pants, with a rather ecstatic expression.

"Aw. Philippa, stop it!" Michael protests, leaning in closer to Milky's face. She kisses him on the forehead, rests her plate on a table, and drops to a squat to give him more pets. 

"What a cute little one! Don't you love him?" Philippa scratches his back. 

"I do." Philippa leans over to peck her on the nose. 

"And I love you too, Michael, _bibi_." Michael blushes. 

"I love you, Pippa. Also, can you see Amy?" Philippa glances around the side of Milky's head. 

"Yeah, she's talking with Tilly. Why?" 

"I bet you they're flirting."

"Michael, I will not bet against a certainty."

"Fair." Philippa reaches out and tugs Michael into a hug with Milky. 

"Family hug!" Philippa announces. Michael smiles and hugs her back. They hold the pose for a moment. "Come on. Let's get you eating." Philippa helps Michael back to her feet. 

"Let's sit with Tilly," Michael advises. Philippa eyes them. 

"Good idea. Michael, no bugging me about eating, I ate a bunch of laksa because of nerves an hour ago," Philippa warns. 

"Fine. Hey, Sylvia." Tilly glances up from her conversation. 

"Oh, Michael! Hey, come sit!" Tilly is bouncing. Michael and Philippa slide into chairs next to them. "So, you guys have Milky?" Philippa sends him around the table. Tilly squeals. 

"I know," Philippa states, looking at his smiling face. Tilly hugs and pets him, squeaking incoherently the whole time. Amy leans over for a pat too. She winks at Michael and Philippa as she reaches across Tilly. Philippa rolls her eyes. “Michael, please don't take advice from her,” Philippa whispers. Michael nods.

“Don't worry, I picked up on that,” she murmurs back. Philippa squeezes Michael’s hand as she watches Amy's antics. “Pretty sure she filled her water glass with...not water. I'm not sure how.”

“Yeah. I'm not surprised.” Philippa sighs and pats Milky's flank.

“Is she always like this?”

“Yes. Once she learned advanced programming to make her replicator turn everything purple.” Michael sighs and takes a bite of her bread, watching Tilly coo over Milky.

“He's so cute! You guys are so lucky…” Tilly is touching her nose to Milky's, scratching his neck.

“Is he, though?” Michael grumbles, under her breath. Philippa slaps her shoulder.

“How dare you say that about our _son,_ Michael!” Philippa protests. Michael sighs, and eats more bread.

“It's so pretty here!” Tilly exclaims, looking up from Milky to glance around the room. Philippa grins.

“I used to come near here on Saturdays when I could run off for a couple hours. I loved it. It was thrilling to go to a different city,” Philippa explains.

"How did you manage that with the transporter checks?" Michael asks, the question only now coming to her mind.

"See, I'm old, Michael, and it was just a quick question of where you were going. I said I was going to visit my grandmother. They never asked more than that." Philippa grins. She steals a strawberry from Michael's plate.

"Really?"

"Yup. I went to the moon once," Philippa says, leaning around to scratch Milky's back.

"Philippa, you were such a terrible child, my Gods." Michael shakes her head.

"So were you, Michael, don't deny it. I know you once beat up a bunch of your brother's bullies with a _damn lunch tray_ when you were _eleven_." Amy laughs.

"If you two have a kid, that child is gonna be the devil incarnate. You were such a smartass kid, Philippa. Sometimes you still are," Amy points out. "You kept blackmailing Nikos." Philippa snorts.

"I forgot about that! I made him talk to pretty girls and tell them I was wonderful." Michael chuckles.

"Lord, Pippa. You were such a demon." Amy smiles at Tilly. "How was your childhood?" Tilly scoffs.

"My parents were divorced by the time I could remember anything. Terrible mother. Had to secretly apply to Starfleet because she thought I'd get rejected. Ran off to San Francisco in the middle of the night. My sister was a slacker, my brother was perfect, and I 'never tried, now, did you, Sylvia?'" she mimics, an almost-perfect replication of her mother's voice. "Glad I made it into the Fleet. I left before I actually got my acceptance letter. Could have gone _really_ badly."

"Damn, Sylvia. That's a gutsy move." Amy smirks. "I feel bad for being a painfully average kid now."

"Be happy," Michael buts in. "Trust me. Better than being held to unreasonable standards." Amy nods and Tilly looks somewhat horrified. "I spent the better part of my childhood reading textbooks before bed and using a pillow as a stuffed animal."

"That's...depressing," Tilly mumbles. Amy nods and finishes the last of her definitely-not-water. "Did you have, um, any of those kid things that other people have? Like...first kiss? Falling off a hoverboard? Failing a class?" Michael shakes her head.

"Kissing in Vulcan culture isn't really a thing. Physical contact is limited. I never rode a hoverboard, though I'm sure Sybok had a few in the back of his closet. Passed every class I was in with a ninety-five or higher."

"How are you even in Starfleet? Shouldn't you be on Earth with twenty Nobel prizes by now?" Tilly gapes. Michael shrugs.

"My father gave up my spot in the Expeditionary Group in favour of Spock, who went to Starfleet anyway." Michael sighs. "But I'm happy to be here with Philippa."

"Course." Tilly smiles. "Glad to see you two together. There's been a bet on you guys since Michael first came aboard." Philippa's face contorts.

"Really? How did you manage to hide _that_?" Michael stifles a snort. Philippa whips around. “You were in on this?”

“I learned about it a few years ago. Keyla bribed me.” Philippa groans.

“You didn’t tell me?” Philippa grumbles.

“No. I entered it, though. No luck.” Michael is trying to hide her intense smirk. Philippa rolls her eyes.

“Who did win?” she asks, stealing another strawberry off Michael's plate. Michael shoves her plate in Philippa's direction.

“I believe it was our Mister Saru.” Tilly nods in confirmation.

“He would have lost to Keyla, too, if you'd switched badges a shift later,” she adds, taking a bite of cookie. “Just made it by the skin of his teeth.” Philippa exhales and leans back in her chair.

“Huh. That's why I saw our Saru fist-pump in the reflection of Keyla's display.” Tilly’s eyes widen and she blinks a couple times, picking up a stray chocolate chip. “Why did I never suspect that?”

“Because you can be completely dense sometimes, Philippa,” Amy says, gesturing at her with a carrot. “Like the time we all told you not to climb a cliff and then you did and broke your leg.”

“Michael, the more I remember about my childhood, the more adverse I am to children. Gods, I forgot about that, Amy.” Amy grins.

“My job is to remind you of the dumb shit you got yourself into as a kid, Pip.”

“Well, you've certainly got lots of material,” Philippa jokes, finishing off the last of Michael's strawberries. “I did so many stupid things. So many! It's a miracle I'm still alive.” Michael can't resist the urge anymore and leans over to kiss Philippa's cheek.

“It certainly is,” Michael mumbles. Philippa chuckles and slides her hand to Michael's back, rubbing the heel of her palm in circles.

“And yet here I am, with my Michael,” she says, in an uplifting tone. “How much longer should we give them to eat?” Philippa scans the area.

“Thirty minutes?” Michael wonders, glancing at Keyla's half-full plate.

“Sure.”

Michael leans into Philippa's shoulder and lets her take the questions for that amount of time, draping an arm across her waist.

“Phil, you think it's time to actually get married?” Michael whispers, after her internal clock guesses thirty minutes have passed.

Philippa kisses her.

“Good idea, Michael. Hey, friends!” Philippa turns around to face them. “Anyone need to finish dinner?” Michael holds in a snort as Januzzi dumps his nearly-full plate in the recycler. A mumble of overlapping “no”s comes from the crowd. “All right! Don't worry, this'll only take ten minutes. It's pure romantic mush.”

“We'd sit through the worst of weddings for you!” Jira yells, trying to disguise her voice and failing.

“That's sweet, Jira, but I'd never subject you to that.” There's a laugh from the crowd. Michael chuckles. “Okay,” Philippa starts, turning to Michael. “I'm gonna go first, Michael.”

“Yes, please, Philippa.” Michael stammers. “But--” she leans out to pull a leaf out of Philippa's hair. “-there we go.” Philippa smiles and reaches her hand out to help Michael out of her chair. Tilly passes into Michael's field of view, giving her the thumbs-up as she takes her spot in the masses. Amy trails behind her. Michael blinks and takes Philippa's hand.

“My lady,” Philippa bows. Michael grins and adjusts her crown. Philippa kisses the back of her hand with a careful sweep, to the delight of the crew.

“My lovely knight,” Michael murmurs. Philippa squeezes her hand. Milky sits down next to her.

“Michael. I love you, my _bibi_. And you're such a brilliant, extraordinary woman who's criminally good at karaoke. And you're so adorable. It took you three whole years and brain trauma to tell me you loved me. And I know you're gonna stop me for saying this, but please don't, I don't deserve someone as amazing as you, Michael. Someone with the heart and love and smile of you.

“And I know you know all this already. But I also love how you push your hair around when you're concentrating. I love how you draw stars in the corners of notes and leave them on my desk. I love that you help me find clothes that won't bother me. I love the way you wear flannel and roll up the sleeves. I love how you kiss me and how you sing under your breath when you read reports and how your eyes shine when you see stars and the way you always _learn_.” Philippa smiles with her eyes downcast, almost bashful. “You're so lovely, my Michael. To be far too romantic, you are, of all the stars, the fairest.” Michael manages a weak laugh at that.

“Should--should have known you would have quoted Sappho at our wedding.”

Philippa reaches out to cup her chin in her hand.

“My Michael, I love you, and you know me.” Michael grins.

“Is--is it my turn?” Philippa nods and moves her crown a little. Michael’s grin widens as she pulls out a dishearteningly large stack of cue cards. A bit of a groan comes from the crowd. She waits a moment, one, two, three.

“Michael, please don't tell me–” Philippa gets cut of by Michael's quick movement, pulling a device out of her pocket, lighting the cards on fire, then tossing the stack in the air. It burns for a second before exploding in fireworks. Philippa stares at the coloured sparks showering on her with a crackle, the tiny blue and gold and pink orbs that shower them, a few remaining scraps of index card falling with them. Philippa gapes. Milky jumps to catch the sparks in his mouth.

“Love you, Philippa,” she murmurs. Philippa moves her mouth to say something, but the words don't come out.

“I...my Gods, Michael, you did this?” Michael beams.

“I did. And I knew you'd know everything I was about to say if I wrote it down. So I just figured I'd tell you I love you, and I'm so glad the stars and galaxies above kept you safe for me.” Philippa puts her hand on Michael's waist, gently stroking her side. “I think I know who I am now.”

“I love you, too.”

Saru sidles up to them and hands Philippa a tablet, which she promptly signs and hands to Michael, who does the same with trembling fingers.

“I'm glad you recorded your wishes and submitted them already, otherwise this would have taken so much longer,” Saru whispers. Michael nods. She pushes the tablet back to Saru, smiling. He nods and passes it on to Tilly. Michael blinks at that, having not noticed her appearance. Tilly pats Milky's head. He barks. Amy takes it as well, and with a quick, flowing motion of her wrist, she finishes. Saru takes it back.

He presses a button at the base of the screen, and thus proceeds a very long seven seconds, which drag for a very long time, each one slower as Michael's pulse increases and Philippa's breath holds, and Philippa takes the moment to think of how quickly seconds pass when you're not thinking, when there is nothing happening, just two more words of a report, another order to the crew, a sentence read in a book.

Michael stares at the dimming light that shines off Philippa's hair.

After a horribly silent wait, the tablet dings in a cheery tone. Saru smiles.

“Good news--” Philippa takes the opportunity to grab Michael's waist a little better, give Michael a moment to attach herself to Philippa better. Philippa leans her down and kisses her. Michael’s hands tighten around Philippa's biceps, leaning up just a little to push her lips against Philippa's. Michael can hear a tiny cheer, undoubtedly Tilly. She smiles. Milky yips and brushes his head against Philippa's legs. Philippa releases Michael, probably only to give Milky a deserved scritch behind the ears.

Saru opens his mouth to speak but shuts up and sighs in exasperation, throwing the PADD on the table, and walks away, muttering. Milky trots after him.

“Love you, my Michael,” Philippa murmurs, helping Michael back to her feet. Michael grins.

“You too. Milky!” He bounds to her side, and she crouches down to unhook his collar, sliding rings off the band. She hands one to Philippa.

“Lovely, wife,” Philippa says, twisting the plain band in the air, watching the navy blue sky reflect off. “I get to call you my wife now.”

“Yes, you do,” Michael muses, her feelings honey.

“And you can bet I'm gonna. Hey, Shenzhou and Georgious, might I introduce you to Michael Burnham, my _wife!_ ” Philippa announces, to a loud cheer. Michael grins and squeezes Philippa's waist.

“Philippa Georgiou, my wife!” Michael adds, to an equally loud cheer.

A crackling of electricity fills the air. Saru blinks, Michael sighs, and Philippa grins. Ripper flashes into existence, surrounded by a fog of spores. He immediately gently shoves against the back of Michael's legs, happy. Milky approaches him tentatively. He barks, and Ripper mirrors the happy yip, letting Milky trot up and observe.

"Hey, bud!" Philippa squeals, scratching Ripper's head. He holds up a plant pot, held gently in his claws, with several noodle-like mushrooms glowing in the soil. Philippa accepts it with a grin. Michael sighs and pats his head.

"Thanks, Ripper. Come visit again, will you?" He nods and points at the fungi in Philippa's hand.

"Aw, you're so sweet, bud! Thanks for the rescue, again, really. We owe you." He shakes his head, awkwardly gives Milky a pat, and crackles back out into space. Philippa giggles.

"Excuse me, but what the hell was that, Phil?" Amy shouts, very confused.

“It's a long story…”

They let the crowd swarm them with hugs again. Tilly wraps her arms so tightly around Philippa her breathing hurts for a moment.

Philippa waits a moment before jumping onto a chair. “Friends, please go and enjoy the snacks provided by our Nambue. And give him a hand for being the real hero here,” Philippa proclaims, pointing at him. Michael watches the way they gravitate to cake and cookies and every imaginable kind of dessert. Philippa smiles and kisses Michael's cheek.

“This went well, wouldn't you say?” Philippa asks, in a low whisper that plays with Michael's heart.

“Yes. And I have a wife now. And--” Michael sighs. “--a _son_. There's your wedding gift,” she grumbles. Philippa beams.

“Our son! You called Milky our son! Maybe you aren't such a bad mom after all.” Milky trots up to them, drawn by his name. Philippa pats his head. “Look! He loves you!” Michael smiles.

“And I love you, Milky, you squishy demon.” Michael gathers his face in her hands and rubs his neck.

“That's it, _wife_.” Philippa's eyes are drawn to Tilly, who seems to have climbed to the top branches of a tree. Michael stares at her too and sighs.

“I can't stop her.” Philippa nods in agreement.

“I'm not going to. She's our daughter now.”

“We've got such a family already...a daughter and a son. Milky, get down! No cake for you.” He whines but stops sniffing at an abandoned plate.

“Huh. Well, I guess the whole crew is our children now, except for Saru. He's most definitely your brother,” Philippa laughs. Michael sticks out her tongue.

“Maybe he's our dad,” Michael suggests, with a shrug.

“I suppose.” Philippa smiles. “That's certainly how he acts.”

“He does seem like that. He's not even eating cake. I think he's eating the fruit off the top.” Philippa peers out at him.

“Gods, you're _right_.”

“I kinda feel bad for him. He looks lonely up there.”

“He can handle himself. Michael, are you all right?” Philippa leans over to clean up her tears.

“Yes, I think, no, maybe? It just hit me all at-at once,” Michael mumbles. Philippa kisses her forehead.

“That's all right. Get it out, there we go,” Philippa soothes. She swipes under Michael's eyes with a napkin.

“I'm--so sorry. Oh, Philippa, I–”

“Michael, it's all right. Come here,” she murmurs, letting Michael bury her face in her shoulder, rocking back and forth. “You have nothing to be sorry for, wife.”

“I know-but...it's hard to love you so much when--I've not–not really _loved_ for most of my life,” Michael rambles. Philippa adjusts Michael's crown as she strokes her hair.

“That's okay, my love. I don't mind that you don't really know what I know about relationships, because you have a part of you that wants to _learn,_ so much, everything, and almost everything I love about you came from that part. And it's okay, Michael, to cry. You know I don't mind it.” Philippa runs her fingers in circles over Michael's back. Michael sniffles and adjusts her head’s position on Philippa's shoulder.

”I'm-I love you…” Michael mumbles, kissing Philippa's chin. Philippa strokes her hair.

“Oh, Michael, I know, I know. Milky, stop it!” She shoves his face away from the piece of cake. Michael laughs weakly.

“Milky!” she says, patting the seat nearby. “Sit!” He jumps onto the chair and sits. Michael scratches his chest.

“Good boy, Milky,” Philippa praises, reaching over Michael to pet his head. He barks. “Yes, that's you! Good pup.” Philippa leans all the way across Michael's lap, folded at the waist, having abandoned Michael, who chuckles and wipes her eyes. “Good fluff bean! Soft dog!”

“Aw, Philippa, what about me?” Michael complains, pouting.

“I can give you love in space, Michael. And I miss him!”

“We got _married_ five minutes ago.”

“But look at his face!” Philippa points at his tongue hanging out of his mouth. “Look at him!” Michael groans and starts playing with Philippa's bun.

“Come on, wife. I love you too!” Philippa rolls onto her back, squeezing herself closer to Michael, who reacts and supports Philippa's head with her elbow. Philippa wraps her arms around Michael's waist. Milky barks at the lack of attention.

“I know. _Wife_ ,” Philippa grins, settling herself in.

“That will never get old.”

 


	21. Chapter Twenty-One, in which Michael Burnham has some insecurities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay but i'm back on schedule now!

Philippa nestles herself behind Michael, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. Michael smiles and puts her hands over Philippa’s. She leans her head up and turns a little, prompting a kiss. Philippa delivers. 

“Mm. I love you.”

“Love you too, Philippa,” Michael mumbles. 

“Love you too, little bean,” Philippa returns, glancing down at their hands. She leans a little more into Michael. Her head clicks into place on Michael's shoulder. 

“Me too.” Michael grins. “I love all my girls.” 

“That's sweet of you, love.” Philippa kisses the back of her neck. “Do you have the list?” Michael sighs. 

“It's on the table, but you can't call a blank note a  _ list _ , Philippa.”

“It isn't gonna stay blank.”

"It probably will, Philippa. We seem to have conflicting opinions on names." Philippa sticks her tongue out in defiance. 

"It won't! There has to be something we agree on," Philippa shoots back, fumbling for the PADD on the sidetable. She emerges victorious.

"I...all right. But I'm tired." Philippa kisses her cheek again.

"Did I tell you you're wonderful?" Michael blushes, rather awkwardly. Philippa adjusts her position to hand Michael the tablet.

"Now you have. How about...Isabel?" Michael suggests, pulling up the note. 

"Isabel like your childhood friend or Isabel _ le _ like my girlfriend when I was sixteen?"

"Isabel like my friend," Michael returns, exasperated.

"Okay, that's...actually quite sweet. Put it down," Philippa admits. Michael grins as the letters appear on the display.

"Milky?" Philippa smiles.

"We're not naming our daughter after a dog, Philippa." Philippa pouts. 

"Aw." Philippa glares at the glowing screen for a moment. "How about Flo?" Michael seems to mull it over for a few seconds.

"Where'd you get that?" Michael makes a suspicious face, hesitantly typing in the letters.

"There was a superhero named Flo in one of my favourite books." Philippa glances off to the side.

"Really?" Michael raises an eyebrow.

"No, it was the name of a cute girl in my xenobiology class at the Academy. Which I almost failed because she was much more captivating than the stuffy professor."

"I'm...unfortunately not surprised-" Philippa _ hmph _ s. "-how about Eleanor?"

"No family members," Philippa scolds.

"Right." Michael pauses and lifts her head in thought. "Elissa?"

"I love that. Sounds so lovely, like an old novel," Philippa muses. Michael taps the name down. "I like Nomi," she adds.

"Hm. Me too. Was that also a cute girl?" Michael narrows her eyes in doubt. 

"No. It was my cat's name." Michael does recall Philippa talking about the cat, though quite faintly. The name joins the others.

"Grace?" 

"Grace is my grandmother's name. I like it," Michael wonders, through a yawn. She ticks at the PADD. "How about Sylvia?"

"Mm. If we did that, love, our Tilly might shake right out of her skin," Philippa grins. "Add it."

"How evil of us." Michael turns her head for a kiss, which Philippa grants. "She deserves it. Are you opposed to Michael Burnham as a name?" 

"Then we'd have two amazing people named Michael Burnham in our history books. How about Alice?"

"That would make Amanda very happy."

"It's a keeper. Have you asked her about her opinions?” Michael looks to the side, sheepish. 

"I...haven't spoken to her yet," Michael admits.

"You--she doesn't know?' Philippa scrunches her eyebrows together.

"No. I didn't know what to say." Michael's guilt rises, and she grips Philippa's hands.

"You were just going to, what, show up on Vulcan with a baby?" Philippa tastes the harshness of her words and immediately regrets them. 

"I...suppose, yeah." Michael feels a sour pinch at the back of her throat.

"Oh, Michael. I'm so sorry, that was mean of me, and I didn't intend it. I love you.” 

“I know you didn't...it's still--I'm just…” Michael trails off. 

“Oh, love. It's all right. Let's call her now." Philippa pulls the PADD out of Michael's hands.

"Hey! No, no, I don't want to call her. If I call her now she'll be worried that something happened, I talked to her yesterday," Michael protests.

"Something  _ did _ happen, four months ago. Michael,  _ sayang _ , you're stalling." Philippa sighs and looks back at the PADD. "It's okay if you're nervous, love. I can talk for you."

"No!" Michael rips the tablet out of Philippa's grip and tosses it away. Philippa's expression falls as she strokes Michael's back. 

"Michael, what's going on? Talk to me,  _ bibi. _ ” Philippa gently holds Michael, shifting her so she lies on her back and Philippa can guide Michael's head to her shoulder. 

"I--I don't want to talk to Sarek!" Michael feels her eyes sear, tears hit her face. She huddles inwards.

"Oh, darling! Shh, oh, my love, shh, it's all okay." Philippa traces circles on Michael's collarbone. "Why didn't you tell me?" she prods, brushing fingers over Michael's cheek.

"I-I-I don't…I don't know," Michael lies, the words sounding pathetic even in her mind.

"My love, I will listen to you. Please. You can tell me," Philippa soothes. Michael grips her fingers into a fist.

"I--he was...he hated that I loved you. He thought I shouldn't have, shouldn't have decided to pursue a relationship with you, since we work together. And–and I fought with him. Many times. Last time I saw him, he told me I should 'regain the balance of my emotions, since that  _ girl _ has clearly destroyed your logic.'" Michael stops to take a deep, shaking breath. "I screamed at him. Left the house, stayed back on the Shenzhou for the rest of my two days of planned Vulcan shore leave. That was just after I invited him to our wedding."

“Oh, Michael, you should have come early to Langkawi! Oh,  _ sweetie,  _ let it out, shh, it's all right,” Philippa thumbs at Michael's cheek. “I'll call Amanda directly." Philippa continues her doodles on Michael's shoulder. "He won't pick up then.”

"She doesn't have a personal channel. They both use it." Michael's voice crackles.

"I'll just call, Michael, and if he picks up I'll negotiate us to Amanda." Philippa's fingers push a swirling pattern at Michael's scalp.

"That won't work! I jus--oh Philippa, he's so...oh," Michael breathes, coherent thought out of her reach.

"Amanda might pick up in the first place, darling. Let's take our chances, if Sarek picks up, I'll say I called him by accident," Philippa persuades, scrolling through the channels saved. "It'll be okay, I promise." Michael squeezes her hand.

"I just--give me two minutes-" Michael rolls unceremoniously out of bed, stumbling to the washroom.

"I'm counting, Michael!" Philippa calls out. She does count, numbers through her head as Michael returns from the washroom and throws her uniform jacket back on, the black undershirt disappearing under the navy blue. Philippa watches in amusement. The tiny gap between the hem of the shirt and the waistband of the pants draws her attention as something she finds completely, utterly adorable on her stoic Michael. Michael tugs the jacket's front down, its fit just a little small. She wipes her eyes and arrives again at Philippa's side with fourteen seconds to spare. 

"Okay, Philippa. Do it," Michael whispers, shoving her hair out of her face. Philippa kisses her cheek.

"My brave Michael. Hand!" she orders, squeezing Michael's hand just out of the reach of the camera. Philippa taps the call button with her thumb and feels Michael compress her fingers. The link rings, once, twice, until the silence of a picked-up call halts the irritating buzz.

Michael can feel the empty stretch between two unmoving poles, two timestamps, one variable in this equation, the ever-melting moment of time where her anxiety can fill her every molecule. She feels its tremble between her muscles, its grip on her nervous system. Her hand constricts around Philippa's.

"Hello?" Amanda's voice is distorted by the distance of the link, but it is distinctly  _ not _ Sarek. Michael's prayers go out to every deity that may exist.

"Hello, Mother," Michael forces.

"Good afternoon, Amanda!" Philippa adds. Michael swears that Amanda's grin transmits through the PADD.

"My favourite wives! How are you, Michael?”

“I'm well. Can I switch you to camera?” Michael is shaking, and Philippa grasps her hand a little firmer. 

“Of course!” Philippa strains her thumb to the switch. Amanda's face appears on the display. She smiles at them, the garden in the background. A speck of dirt sits on her nose. She waves a gardening glove-clad hand at them. “What's happening with you two? I haven't heard from you in  _ ages _ .” Philippa glances at Michael. 

 

_ Called her yesterday, my ass.  _

 

“Oh, we just missed you!” Michael interjects. Philippa pokes her in the side. 

“Michael, stop that. We do miss you, but that isn't  _ exactly _ why we called.” Michael has a death grip on Philippa's hand now. 

“Let me guess…Michael's a robot.” Amanda is beaming. “You accidentally adopted two thousand tribbles. Michael ate too much chocolate and did something silly. You…” Amanda searches for words. “...you turned against Starfleet and are running to the Gamma Quadrant. You robbed a bank. Michael's pregnant. You're trapped in the past because you broke the prime directive. There's an infestation of flesh-eating spiders. You're from another dimension.”

Michael has shucked her nerves for chuckles, and she leans into Philippa's shoulder, laughing. Philippa snorts. 

“I'm--you–you actually guessed it-” Philippa manages, through deep laughter. Amanda starts laughing as well, and soon they abandon all hope of conversation for the next few minutes. It takes a long time for them to recover, but they do manage to return to a normal state.

“So? Do you have a bunch of tribbles for me?” Amanda's eyes are wide and hyper. 

“No, try again!” Philippa is grinning too. 

“Michael's pregnant.” Her tone is clearly joking. Philippa looks at Michael and back again. Michael does the same. Amanda freezes. “Wait...no! Really?”

“Mm-hm,” Michael murmurs. “Surprise.” Amanda claps her free hand over her mouth. She makes a noise Michael has to describe as a squeal, and almost drops the tablet. 

“Michael! Oh, husband, come here!” Michael tenses. Philippa lifts three fingers and strokes the inside of Michael's wrist. "Michael and Philippa called!" Amanda's cheery voice isn't enough to soothe the panic cooling through Michael's veins. She can feel a heavy weight settle in her chest, her breathing tightening.    


"No!" she mumbles, digging her fingernails into her thigh. Philippa disentangles their hands and lifts Michael's claw hand off her leg. Michael sighs and stretches out her fingers. Her arm falls, limp, to her side. A corner of a red robe covers the camera, and the dread in Michael's core balloons a few sizes.    


"One moment, girls!" Amanda lifts the PADD up as she stands, holding it in front of Sarek's face and hers. "There we go. Sarek, say hello."   


"Good morning, Michael. Philippa," he nods in their direction, stiffly. He adjusts his stance. Michael almost laughs at his discomfort.    


"Good morning, Sarek. Are you well?" Michael smiles, a tiny, tiny rebellion.    


"Yes, I am. What is the purpose of this call?" Philippa almost starts a sentence, but Amanda beats her to it.    


" _You_ ," she says, gesturing at Sarek, "are going to apologize to your _daughter_ for yelling her out of the house last time she visited." Amanda has a very determined twinge to her voice now. "I know about that. Now, you are going to apologize, and you're going to mean it." Sarek seems utterly bewildered. 

"I....Michael, I apologize for my behaviour last time you visited." The words are rushed and insincere, which Amanda picks up immediately. 

"Husband, try again," she orders. He sighs.    


"Michael, I should not have critiqued your relationship with Captain Georgiou, nor should I have questioned your choice of marriage. She is a... _ respectable _ captain. My actions were non-subjectively illogical, and I am sorry." He exhales. Amanda pats his shoulder.    


"Much better, husband. Now--" she looks back at Michael. "–we have some news for you," she beams. Michael's smile is entirely unconvincing.    


"Yes--I, well–we, uh--I'm going..." Michael stumbles. Philippa scratches between her shoulder blades. Michael shivers.    


"Micha-" Philippa starts, interrupted by Amanda.    


"They're going to have a kid! Isn't that fantastic, husband?" Amanda bubbles. Michael winces, thankful for the sensation of Philippa's nails tickling her spine. Sarek makes a face of shock, or what seems to be the Vulcan equivalent. Michael blushes.

"That is...unexpected, though not unwelcome," Sarek adds, quite uncomfortable.

"It's wonderful! Will you be stopping by anytime soon?" Amanda's sheer joy overrides Sarek's indifference.

"I think we'll get shore leave two or three months from now," Philippa says, squeezing Michael's hand.

"We'll get two weeks in June," Michael confirms. 'We'll visit you then." A ping comes up in the top corner of the display, a reminder of their shift starting in a few minutes. Michael stares at it in confusion, their shift having ended three hours ago.

"I'm sorry, Amanda, we've got to leave. We'll call you again?" Philippa slides the ping away. Michael blinks. 

"Oh, of course, my girls! Sarek, say goodbye!" Amanda is bouncing. 

"Live long and prosper, Michael, Captain."

"Same to you. Father," Michael adds. The transmission winks out. Michael sighs and leans into Philippa, her head nestled in her shoulder.

"That could have gone worse, Michael," Philippa murmurs, kissing Michael's cheek. 

"Mh. I guess," she mumbles. Philippa chuckles and wraps her arm around Michael's waist, dropping the tablet. "Did you plant that ping?"

"Don't be silly. I  _ absolutely _ did not," Philippa protests, joking. Michael drops her head into Philippa's lap.

"Of course not." Michael curls up. Philippa strokes her hair, snuggling up to Michael.

"You're so adorable, my love." Philippa leans down and kisses her curls. "I love you." 

"I love you too, Philippa. Can I have a nap?" Michael asks.

"I swear, Michael, you're  _ purring _ ." Michael blushes. She can feel a bit of a hum coming from the back of her throat. She stops, self-conscious. "Oh, Michael, it was so cute, you didn't have to stop," Philippa whispers.

"Mmmh," Michael mumbles, her face squished into the pillow of flesh just above Philippa's knee. "Shouldn't have told me." 

"Aw, Michael. Sleep," Philippa urges. "Be good for the little one." Michael scoffs, but obeys. Her eyes close, and Philippa rubs her bicep. 

"'Night," Michael whispers.

"Good night, my love, let the stars guide your path."

"That was fancy," Michael murmurs, before putting her hand over Philippa's.

"Night,  _ bibi _ ," Philippa continues. Michael chuckles. 

"Love you, wife," Michael adds.

"Sleep well, darling."

Michael succumbs to sleep rather quickly, guided by Philippa's soft words and the comfort of her love.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two, in which our protagonists are very tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is a rewrite of an old fic I put on my tumblr (tin-can-spaceship.tumblr.com/post/175155476665/hello-yeah-because-not-being-able-to-walk) so if it's familiar that's why

“I'm  _ fine _ , Phil.”

“Yeah, because not being able to walk straight is totally fine,” Philippa scolds, pushing Michael back into bed. 

“I can't think straight with you around, Philippa.” She leaves a sloppy kiss on her wife's cheek.  

“Was that a pun, Burnham?” Philippa shakes her head, laughing. “Back to bed.” Michael groans. 

“I'm fine. I told you.”

“You had a  _ baby _ two weeks ago, Mikey. A whole little human. Give yourself a break. And,” Philippa places her hand across Michael's forehead, testing for a fever, “I wanted to take Alice to the holodeck for some sun anyway. I need someone to watch you and make sure you don’t do something stupid like try and work.” She smiles and peeks down at her daughter’s sleeping form, a perfect little ball. Michael slips her arm around Philippa. She rests her head on Philippa's shoulder and rubs her fingers across the divot in her midsection. 

“She's asleep,” Michael whispers. Philippa pokes around at the side of the crib and produces her monitor tablet. 

“She should wake up in…” Philippa scrolls through the screen, “...three minutes. Gods, this thing is a lifesaver.” She sets it on their windowsill. “Go lie down, Michael.” 

Michael grumbles but obliges, curling up in a disgruntled ball. Philippa plucks the medkit off their sidetable. She clicks open the box, rifling through the contents, and emerging victorious with a tricorder. 

“Stay still,” Philippa orders, scanning over Michael with the small device, and reading the results on the impractically tiny screen.

“I told you, I'm fine!” Michael protests. Philippa flips the tricorder closed. 

“That's not what this says. You have a cold. I’m gonna walk down and grab Hugh, and he’ll get you something for it.” Michael groans.

“I don't want to get up,” she croaks. Philippa sighs. 

“You don’t have to. I'll go get someone. You-” The quiet murmuring of Alice waking up cut her off. “-take care of Alice, little bean.” She scoops up the newborn and settles her in Michael's arms. Alice melts into Michael, who strokes her smooth head. Alice cooes. Philippa grabs her wrist monitor off her nightstand, clicking the finicky strap on. 

“She's cold. Try her yellow pyjamas, those fuzzy ones from Tilly. She's a little hungry, too,” Philippa adds, pawing through her dresser. She places Alice's pyjamas next to Michael, along with a mint blanket. “Okay. I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Call me if you need me.” Michael nods, sleepy eyes fixed on Alice's. Philippa kisses both their foreheads, ruffling Michael’s hair. “My girls. Love you.” 

Her feet lead her out of the room, hands tightening her wrist monitor. Measured steps bring her across the corridor to the turbolift. The doors slide open with a hiss. 

“Deck 5,” she orders, striding into the cylindrical chamber. The computer beeps and shuts the doors, which catch for a moment before fully closing. Philippa taps her watch. 

“Michael, are you there?” Several seconds of silence press down before a quiet snore emanates from her wrist. Philippa chuckles and turns off the audio call. “Computer, is Michael Burnham asleep?” The computer crackles for a moment. 

“Michael Burnham is asleep,” it says, in a strange, staticky tone.

“Is Alice Georgiou-Burnham also asleep?” The computer hums for a few seconds. 

“Alice Georgiou-Burnham is asleep.” The elevator door cracks open. Philippa steps into the quiet hallway, turning right sharply into Sickbay. She flinches at the bright lights. 

“Captain! A pleasure,” Hugh greets, with a grin. Philippa glances at Culber, restocking a medkit on one of the many empty beds. She tries to fake a smile and fails.

“Good...afternoon?” She rubs her forehead. Hugh laughs. 

“It's morning. Tired?”

Philippa groans. “You have  _ no idea _ . Can we send someone to check on Burnham? She's got a cold.” Culber picks up the finished medkit. 

“I was about to come by to check on Alice anyway.” Philippa pats his shoulder. 

“Thanks, Hugh. The transporters are down for maintenance, we’ll have to walk.” He shouts some medical gibberish over his shoulder to the other doctor in the room. 

“Fine with me. How's Alice doing?”

“She sleeps about eighty percent of the time between 1400 and 0200, and about...forty percent of the remaining twenty-four hours. She's been out in the holodeck sun almost every day, and the nebula pool as well,” Philippa recites, flat numbers Michael made her memorize. 

“Nebula  _ pool _ ?” Hugh questions, eyes wide. 

“Next time you're on the holodeck, play program Burnham-12. It's well worth it.” Hugh nods. “Alice  _ loves  _ it. She doesn't cry very often, but I'm sure it's because our monitors allow us to predict what she'll need. Thanks for the modifications, Doctor.” 

Hugh smiles. “Thank Ensign Tilly and Paul,” he says, leaving Sickbay with Philippa in tow. 

“I most certainly will. I’m quite glad Alice was born in this century. Having a child when you couldn't  _ know  _ why they were crying sounds like a nightmare.” 

“It does, doesn’t it? Paul and I are...considering adopting a child. Maybe one day.” Philippa’s supportive smile warms Hugh. 

“That would be nice. You'd be wonderful parents. Deck 2!” she calls. They stand in companionable silence until the turbolift doors open. Philippa leads Hugh down to her quarters, slowing her pace. He slips his tricorder out of his kit with ease, following Philippa into her quarters. 

She pads into her bedroom, motioning for Hugh to come. The door opens, silently. Michael is sprawled on top of the bed, head slowly squishing a pillow. Alice curls up in her blanket, on top of Michael. Her tiny head rests against Michael's neck. Philippa strokes her wife's cheek.

Culber scans Michael, doing his best to mute the buzzing. He flicks through the results, rifling through his kit for a hypo. He plugs a vial into the bottom, absentmindedly, still staring at the test results. 

“It's just a cold. Here-” he hands Philippa the hypospray, handle first, “-give this to her when she wakes up, Otherwise, she's better than expected, really. No problems with Alice, either.”

“Thank you…” Philippa yawns, falling onto the bed next to Michael. 

Hugh, feeling rather awkward, slips out of the room. 

Philippa buries her head in Michael’s shoulder. She throws an arm across Michael's chest. 

“Philippa, is that you?” Michael mumbles. 

“It's me, Michael. Do you need anything?”

“I can't breathe out my nose. Also Alice is on top of my lungs.” Philippa fumbles for her hypo and presses it to Michael’s neck. 

“Culber just stopped by,” Philippa explains. She pulls herself onto her knees and gently lifts the bundle off Michael's chest. Alice's eyelids flutter but, thankfully, don’t open. Philippa shuffles off the bed, clutching Alice. She places her in her crib as if she were made of eggshells. 

Michael stretches, her fuzzy pants raising above her bare feet. She heaves herself to her feet. Padding over to Philippa, she wraps her arm around her waist. 

“Dance with me, Philippa,” Michael murmurs, eyelids drooping. She kisses Philippa’s lips, unruly hair brushing against her forehead. 

“Mm. You should be in bed.”

“One dance. Then I'll sleep. You should, too,” Michael adds. Philippa wordlessly slips her arm around Michael, sliding her free hand into Michael's. 

“Computer, play song Burnham-31,” Michael whispers. Melodic classical music sneaks through the speakers, filling their ears. Philippa trails Michael gently around the room, instinctively counting the  _ one, two, three, four _ . 

“I can't believe this. I have a beautiful wife, and a little one, and a family...a starship… Michael, I love you, so much,” Philippa muses, releasing Michael’s hand to wipe at her own tears.

“I love you, my Philippa,” she croaks. “Let's explore the universe. Together.” 

 

They stand, basking in starlight, for a very long time. 

  
  



	23. Chapter Twenty-Three, in which Alice Georgiou-Burnham is just slightly bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! i'm sorry for being late with the update--was trying to finish another chapter.

 

“Alice, you locked your boots?” Michael asks, sliding her gloves on. 

“Yes, I locked my boots, yes, I hooked up my oxygen, yes, I put my suit on correctly, no, I'm not hungry, no, I don't need help,” Alice replies, leaning against the doorframe and peering out into the asteroid belt a few kilometres away. Michael smiles. 

“All ready?” Michael confirms, turning on her boots. Alice nods. 

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead then, bean.” Alice beams and slams the first button with a little more force than necessary. She clicks the remaining affirmations on the screen, checks the pressure of her suit, and pulls the final lever. The door opens, the field lowers, and a twinkling black is presented before Alice’s eyes. She blinks. 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Michael murmurs. 

“It looks so different...out without a window.” Alice steps out onto the hull, her boots clanking. “What does it look like without a helmet?”

“You wouldn't see it because your eyes frost over. So don't try. Doctor Culber doesn't deserve another one of your little schemes.” Alice groans. 

“I told you, it was for  _ science _ .” 

“I didn't see you recording your results. I also didn't see you type up a report after your treatment,” Michael shoots back, with a raised eyebrow. Alice huffs. 

“I broke several ribs, Mother.”

“For science?” Michael is grinning. Alice grumbles. “The tensile strength of ribs versus a shuttle’s rear thrusters?”

“Sure. You have the tools?” Alice crouches in front of the damaged panel, poking at the edge. Michael slides her the kit, latched to the hull. Alice stops it with a hand and clicks it open. Michael peers over her shoulder at the crumpled panel, watching as Alice cuts off the bent piece and flips it over in her hand. 

“If I didn't know better, I'd say those were--” Michael starts, brushing her fingers over the irregular scratches on the inner portion. 

“Bite marks,” Alice finishes, staring in disbelief at the scrapes. She glances up to where her mother was standing. Her panic kicks in, hearing faint yelling through her comm. She catches the sight of her mother's gold suit and sprints for the gleam on the nacelles, screaming for a transport. A fleck of blood splats on her visor. She wipes it away, to see her mother, choking, suit ripped, in the hands of a jagged, blocky alien, its tentacles against her throat. She freezes for a moment. Dread spikes through her core, pulling panic strings, bounding and derailing her thoughts. She can only look into Michael's eyes. 

Her arms move again. 

“That's my  _ mother _ !” Alice shrieks, hurling her wrench at its eye. 

It flies in slow motion. She waits for the time it will make contact, her mind calculating the accuracy, the way everything is melting slow. Her wrench finds its mark. 

It releases a yowl that transmits through her mother's comm and drops Michael. Alice runs to grab her away and feels the tingle of the transport returning them to the ship, her feet still carrying her as far away from the creature as possible until they land in the transporter room, Michael suddenly feeling much heavier. Alice sets her down on the floor. She can hear the transporter operator call for a med-team, but it flies over her head as she pulls the broken helmet off her mother. 

“Hey, it'll be fine, Mother, it'll be okay,” Alice soothes. 

“Shh...bean, okay?” Michael slurs. 

“It's okay, it's okay. There's our med-team,” Alice says, holding her mother's gloved hand tightly in an uncharacteristic way. Michael mumbles something incoherent and blinks. Several officers run over to Michael, armed with multiple different medical tools. Lights flicker. Awful beeping rings in Alice's ears, a constant, shrill scream into her mind. She ignores it. Michael squeezes her wrist twice, turning her head to look at Philippa, who had just appeared in the doorway. Philippa's hand drops to Alice's shoulder as she crouches. Michael drops Alice's arm in order to reach for Philippa. 

"Oh, Michael, darling, it's all right, it's all right, shh, shh, let's transport you to Sickbay," Philippa murmurs, holding Michael's hand. "Alice, you're the only one who saw what happened. What was it?"

"A...creature. It had some form of tentacles--definitely eyes, and unfortunately strong enough suctions to rip off some skin. It was kind of formless, very jagged. I threw my wrench at it and it dropped Michael," Alice says, closing her eyes in concentration to remember.

"Doesn't sound familiar, but then again, maybe I just can't think of it. Michael, they're gonna have to give you some medication, all right?" Philippa's tone shifts to a softer, quiet voice she uses with injured crew. Michael, who seems to have recovered her coherent thought a little, nods. A hypo clicks and presses to her neck. More lights and ringing beeps come through, Alice contorts her face and covers her ears, the situation now under control enough for her to run off. She slips out the door with unnecessary stealth.

Her feet drag her across the ship, in looping patterns, around service corridors, in engineering, gardens, labs, every corner she knows, in the same repeating pattern she finishes before she knows, exactly two hours, by design, each major room, most hallways, the ducts. 

"Bean?" Philippa's voice comes from behind her. Alice jumps.

"Hmm?" Alice returns, stopping just outside the door to Engineering, her returning favourite room.

"I'm sorry you had to see Michael so beat up. I think we captured the creature. It's in an empty cargo hold, if you don't mind identifying it." Philippa holds out a PADD with photos displayed, a better look at the organism that she'd seen. Alice glances it over.

"That's it. Did it have Mother's blood on the tentacles?” Alice looks up from the PADD and hands it back. 

“It had traces. She'll be fine, just, you know. I know you hate the beeping.”

“Okay. I-thank you.” Alice holds her hands tight behind her. Philippa kisses her on the forehead and heads for the turbolift. 

“Have fun in Engineering!” Philippa yells, through the shrinking opening in the lift door. Alice sighs and sneaks into the open door, watching the delicate patterns of the warp core paint the walls with blue before diving behind a station to resume her work. 

 


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four, in which Alice Georgiou-Burnham finds herself in a predicament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, goodness, I'm sorry about the wait! It's here now.

“Mothers, this isn't necessary,” Alice protests, grumpily speed-walking down the garden path to her quarters. “You know how well I'm doing. My roommate is of no importance.”

“Alice, come on. We want to meet her,” Philippa says, grinning. She taps on Michael's shoulder. 

 

_ dating? _

 

Michael's response comes at the base of Philippa’s spine. 

 

_ no doubt. _

 

Alice whips around. “We’re not together!” she hisses, prompting a grin from Philippa. 

“Sure,” Philippa says. 

“Oh my  _ Gods _ .” Alice groans and stomps in the building. 

Michael and Philippa follow her down a hallway, exchanging grins all the way. Alice stops and punches in a code with bitterness, yelling “T’Prya! It's my parents!” before the doors slide open. 

T’Prya, as she seems to be called, was very vaguely described by Alice as ‘a smart Vulcan lady’. She is Vulcan, hair up in an elaborate styling, cadet uniform on, gently folding a shirt on a neat side of the room. 

“You are Admiral Georgiou and Captain Burnham?” T’Prya asks, setting aside her clothes for a moment as she stands to greet Alice's parents. 

“That's us. T’Prya, is it?” Philippa asks.

“Yes. A pleasure to meet you, Admiral, Captain,” T’Prya responds, shaking their hands. 

“Alice, your room is a  _ disaster,” _ Michael observes, staring at the various PADDs and papers and socks scattered about her side of the room. 

“Mother. It's fine,” Alice grumbles. T’Prya says nothing. 

“You have to be neater for your roommate, Alice,” Philippa warns, picking a grease-stained shirt off of Alice's bed with apprehension. 

“T’Prya, what’s your track?” Michael asks, side-eying Alice. 

“Engineering.”

“Oh, like Alice! Do you share classes?” Philippa interjects, folding one of Alice's shirts over her arm. 

“Yes. Seventy-five percent of our classes are attended by both of us.” 

“And we sit together in all of them,” Alice adds, having walked up to T’Prya’s side and rested her hand on T'Prya’s back.

“How much have you irritated your teachers, Alice?” Michael prods. “Be honest.”

“ _ So _ much,” Alice admits, with a chuckle. “You were worse, Philippa.”

Philippa laughs and rubs Alice's bicep. “I'm sure I was. Stay out of trouble, you two, I'm too old to deal with court-martials,” she warns. 

“Don't worry, we will,” Alice confirms, leaning up to press a kiss to T’Prya’s cheek. “Mostly.”

Alice leans against T’Prya’s shoulder as Philippa turns to Michael with a blinding grin. 

“We were right! I'm happy for you two. We'll leave you to your homework, but give us a call, Alice!” Philippa says, already giving her a goodbye hug. 

“What, you're not gonna pick apart my room piece by piece?” Alice chuckles and hugs her mothers back. 

“You're off the hook today, but it better be tidier next time we visit. Michael, I hear there's a lovely new garden. I think the  _ Shenzhou  _ can wait for us.” 

Philippa's talking mutes as the doors slip shut behind her and Alice leans just a little more into T’Prya. 

 

It's two hours later when T’Prya comments on the events, her head on Alice's shoulder, shiny, inky-black hair undone and flowing across the pillow and tickling Alice's cheeks, a warm hand on Alice's stomach, letting just a wisp of a smile cross her face. 

“It was bold of you to pretend we were together in front of your parents. Very bold. Why?” T’Prya prods, warm patterns of breath brushing across Alice's collarbones. 

“Because,” Alice starts, tracing a path down T’Prya’s arm with her fingertip, “they weren't gonna leave unless they thought I wanted to spend some  _ quality  _ time with you. Which, y’know,” Alice gestures at their current predicament. “Michael had about a month of her own captaincy without Philippa jumping to Admiral and tagging along. I worked dead shifts for the next week.”

T’Prya  _ hmm _ s and holds on tighter. Alice smiles. 

“Also because they made me realize how much you actually mean to me. I was resisting them coming and visiting you because, I realize now, I wanted to date you first,” she murmurs, pulling T’Prya tighter. 

“Hm. We are together now?” T’Prya asks, gently. 

“Of course we are, Prya. Come here.”

They fall asleep, in the lazy, sweet way of early evening.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five, a goodbye.

Alice fixes her greying ponytail before settling on the ground, crossing her legs. She runs her fingers over the textured stone, set in the ground.

“Hey, mothers. Ripper told me you’d hang around here today for me,” she mumbles. “I’m sorry it’s been so long.” She pauses for a long moment that turns into several minutes.

“I got promoted to Captain last week. The ‘fleet launched an engineering ship to patch up all its other ships. Like a...mobile starbase. T’Prya is coming along with me, but only because she's also an engineer. None of the other crewmembers can bring their partners.” Alice toys with the grass around Michael’s grave.  
“Ripper told me you two get to float about the endless universe until it collapses. Is it nice, up there, in the stars? Does it look different without a helmet? He said he’ll try and take me up, too, once I’m gone. And T’Prya, too, if she’s willing. But I don’t know if the Vulcan in her will let her.” Alice rubs her eyes, and lays down in the plush grass.

“I hope she’ll come. Ripper says there’s something about most people, who don’t find joy in the endless space, and who just want to move on to whatever the actual afterlife is. But you both light up when you see something in the depths of space, when you see something so stunning among the stars. I guess it’s a family trait.” Alice makes a teary chuckle.

“There’s this new crewmember on board. They remind me of you, Michael, when you’d dumped Philippa’s katra into yours once she died. They’re quite funny, and they’re so smart, so sweet. I think they’re gonna go far. You know that feeling, Philippa, you know it. I’m trying to be like you, a good mentor. Saru gave me some pointers last time I called him. He’s still around. An admiral, and a damn good one at that. He recommended me for this ship.” Alice wipes her nose on the back of her hand.

“I hope you’re really around, like Ripper said you were. If you are...I love you. And I’ll see you in a few decades.”

Somewhere, the wispy form of Philippa leans her head on a ghostly Michael’s shoulder, as they watch their daughter walk back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking through this! It's been loads of fun.


End file.
